Playing With Life
by SpecialAgentZiva
Summary: For once in his life, he does not know what to do. It's a cruel game, one he barely managed to keep up with anyway. And he should have known. He should have known there would be a grand finale, he should have known it would end like this.
1. Think, Sherlock, Think

**A/N: Another Sherlock fic. I have got to start catching up on my others. But that's not the point. This will likely not contain any pairings as it's supposed to be a case. This is after The Great Game. Please enjoy. Oh, and reviewers are loved. :)**

**I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately.**

For once in his life, he does not know what to do.

He stares back and forth between the two figures, heart running far faster than it should have been. His hands betray his panic almost as much as his eyes do. The brilliant blue have lost their intensity, replaced by something far different. Sheer panic and fear, something he's never experienced before. Because he knows: no matter who he chooses, the other will die.

It's a cruel game, one he barely managed to keep up with anyway. And he should have known. He should have known there would be a grand finale, he should have known it would end like this. He switches his gaze to the clock on the wall, its numbers screaming at him as it counted down slowly. Four minutes, thirty seconds… Four minutes, twenty-nine seconds…

"I'll give you another choice, Sherlock," a cruel voice boomed throughout the room. He froze at the sound of it. "You can die for them."

* * *

_72 Hours Ago_

"You are my lifeline," he whispered fitfully, eyes shut tight as he tossed and turned in his bed. "Don't leave me, not yet. I need to figure this out."

The man's breathing increased to a rapid pace before his eyes flew open. He stared at the ceiling above him in a panic for a few moments before realizing. This was home, this was safe. Home was boring, but it was his sanctuary, his place to think. He repeated this in his head for a few moments before forcing his breathing to slow, drawing in fake-calm, deep breaths.

Only in dreams did he ever seem affected by the despairing world around him. In person, up close and well awake, Sherlock Holmes hardly came off as a sensitive man who presented his emotions easily. No, only when he managed sleep did the emotions present themselves. Only then did he lose the control he carefully maintained throughout the day. He could hardly ever remember his dreams, only remember waking in a panic, calling out words that made no sense to him.

Slowly, he propped himself up on his bed and stared around the room. The same as always. Same bed, same wall, same window. Same everything. He allowed himself to release the breath he'd forgotten he was holding and pushed himself up off the bed. There was no time like the present, he'd always thought, and even then there was hardly time at all. If he could get an early start to the day, perhaps, no matter how tired, he'd be more than ready if a case were to arise.

Oh, he really hoped there would be a case soon. He'd spent the last week fighting with John over his gun, wanting so badly to shoot something but constantly finding his companion hiding the gun. It had become sort of a game between them. John would hide the gun and Sherlock would find it, most times within minutes of it being hidden. At least it had given them something to do over the last few days, but it hadn't been much.

It would be 10:00 before anyone came to the door, and by then he was well awake, fretting over John's apparent attempt to sleep until Christmas. He answered the door in excitedly, his normal composure momentarily forgotten, and found himself quite surprised at the person who stood in the doorway. He'd expected Lestrade, yes… but not her.

Not Sally Donovan, she hated him.

And yet she was standing there, looking less than amused at being there. Thrown off his game for once, it took Sherlock a few moments to speak. "Where's Lestrade?"

"Not really sure," she told him, rolling her eyes. He almost grinned at this, but the grin fell at her next words. "That's the problem. We can't find him."

"And you expect me to? Dear God, I'd hoped you'd come with something _interesting_."

"Freak, I'm not here to amuse you. The point is… well, we got a note at Scotland Yard. The writer wanted us to go to you. Unfortunate," Sally shook her head angrily. "Why would anyone want to talk to you, freak? But that's not the point. Here, the note."

She held it out to him and he daintily grabbed it, holding the note away from his body as if it were poisonous. This only seemed to make Sally more irritated. He scanned over the note quickly, a confused look coming over his face. Well, he'd finally gotten what he'd been waiting for. A challenge, a real challenge. He scanned the note a second time, puzzling over it.

SHERLOCK,

NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

UNFORTUNATELY YOU WON'T BE SEEING LESTRADE ANY TIME SOON.

UNLESS, OF COURSE, YOU'D LIKE A PUZZLE.

YOU PLAY WITH YOUR OWN LIFE, SHERLOCK -

BUT WILL YOU PLAY WITH SOMEONE ELSE'S?

Sherlock's mind ran a mile a minute at that moment. Thousands of possibilities ran through his mind. Lestrade had been kidnapped, that was obvious. But what kind of game was the kidnapper playing? What was this about? Still puzzling over this, he flipped it over, hoping for a clue of some kind.

He was met with nothing, at first, his keen eyes scanning every inch. Frustrated, Sherlock held it up above him, closer to the ceiling light, and the lightest of words appeared, written in pencil. He frowned and read the words quickly.

AS YOU ALWAYS SAY, YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME.

THINK, SHERLOCK, THINK.

IT'S ME AGAIN.

HELLO.

Of course. He should have known who would have done this, kidnapped Lestrade and sent such a message. Gritting his teeth, the man haphazardly stuffed the note in his pocket. He could see everything play out in his head once more, the events that he'd tried to so hard to forget. The aftermath of the pool. Which was now really not much, but he could see its sentimentality to one such as Moriarty.

"Alert John, tell him I've gone and why," Sherlock instructed Sally, who only glowered in response. He snatched his coat from the rack nearby and slipped it over his head, leaving out the scarf for once. People seemed to have developed an odd habit of choking him and he did not want to give them something else to strangle him with. Not once looking behind him, he took the stairs three at a time. Mrs. Hudson stared as he went by, opening her mouth to speak, but he only shook his hand. No time.

"Alright," he whispered to himself as he pushed the door open forcefully. "You want to play, Moriarty? The game is on!"

But there was a small note of panic in his voice that has never been there before.


	2. This Can't Be It

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who read/alerted/favorited this chapter, and, of course, thanks to asininityJackal for reviewing. :) Please enjoy the second chapter. I really haven't got much to say today...**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

Each moment felt like an hour until the taxi finally pulled to a stop, just a block away from his destination. Sherlock barely remembered to pay as he left. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, keeping his mind sharp and quite alert. He walked double as fast as he normally would, an unfamiliar unease starting in his stomach. Something told him that he needed to hurry. Time was of the essence, and not just for him.

Only when the rubble came into view did he take off in a full sprint. There wasn't much left of the pool where Carl Powers had died, where he'd first faced off with Moriarty. Piles of rubble, half-torn down walls and a huge crater - the only clue as to what the facility had been beforehand - were all that was left. He was thankful to find only one other man on the site, dressed in black and definitely sleeping. Sherlock smirked.

He slowed to scan the area, keen eyes documenting every little detail. Blacks and grays were all that met his eyes, at least until his gaze passed over one of the walls. He had to look again, just to be sure. A flash of white. His heartbeat sped up by just a fraction and he approached it with a small amount of caution, reaching out eagerly as he reached it. Another letter.

Well… this was better than meeting Moriarty again, but still not great.

This time, there was no verification that it wasn't trapped, he reminded himself, but proceeded to open it anyway. In all honesty, he expected another phone. Perhaps not pink, but nevertheless a phone of some kind. He was slightly confused to find something else. A… pager? The man's mind ran faster than ever now. He wrenched it from the envelope, letting the useless stationary fall to the ground, and examined it for a moment. It startled him when it gave a small beep and words began to roll across the screen.

"Hello, Sherlock. Nice to see you come out to play again. I have your precious little DI, if you still want him. It's up to you to find him, dear, before the clock runs out. Tick, tick, tick…"

He stared at it for few more minutes. The message played over once again. How was he supposed to find Lestrade with just this? Frustrated, Sherlock growled to everyone and no one, "This can't be it."

Thankfully, it wasn't. A few seconds later, more words began to appear, replacing the other messages. He frowned at it.

"Thought that was it, didn't you? It's so fun to play with you. Here's how you'll find him, dear: one of his coworkers is lying."

And that was finally it. Sherlock shoved the pager in his pocket. What could the clue possibly mean? Lestrade's 'coworker' could be any person out of the possible hundreds that worked in different positions in Scotland Yard! And even if he found the right one, what would they be lying about? He sincerely doubted that anyone in Scotland Yard would be working closely with Moriarty. That left quite a few options, though. Perhaps someone was lying about being somewhere recently…

His eyes lit up. Yes, that had to be it. But would Lestrade be in the place they actually had been to, or the place they were lying about? Or was he wrong after all? Gritting his teeth, Sherlock resolved to do a little close checking on his favourite members of Scotland Yard. Not that he really wanted to know where Anderson had been, but, if it was of use…

Sherlock reached into his pocket, drawing out his phone. He punched in the familiar numbers. A text wouldn't do, not now. This was important enough to call. He smirked lightly. Opposite of Mycroft, perhaps. The other man called for every little thing and only texted on important things when he was in an unavoidable situation. Like two sides of a coin, they were.

He waited impatiently for the phone to be picked up and began to walk away from the rubble towards the road. A few taxis flashed by, promising ease of transportation. Good, he'd need it. John didn't seem keen on picking up the phone.

"Oh, just wake up, for God's sake-" he started, stopping abruptly as John finally answered.

"Sherlock? Wha… what? Why are you calling? Where are you?" A pause, and then, "Why is Donovan here?"

"Have you honestly been sleeping this whole time, John? Donovan will explain it to you. Tell her to get herself, and you, back to Scotland Yard. As fast as you can."

"Sherlock, I don't understand-"

"No time, John. Lestrade's missing and Moriarty's back to play." The importance of the situation must have sunk in because the line went dead. Satisfied now, Sherlock hailed a taxi. Unlike the uneasy ride to the pool, the drive to Scotland Yard was different. It seemed to long, but only because his mind was still running in hyperspeed and he wanted so badly to start solving the mystery. And, though he'd never admit it, it wasn't just that. There was a bit of guilt gnawing at the back of his mind, accompanied by uneasiness, both of which screaming the importance of the situation at him. If he didn't solve this, the end result was very obvious.

Lestrade would die.

And then, of course, he'd never be part of cases. It had been the luck of meeting Lestrade that had gotten him where he was. Well, in some ways, he wouldn't call it luck. At least back then he hadn't. It had been five years ago, and Sherlock had still been a drug addict. In fact, it had been a drugs bust that had forced him meet Lestrade first-hand. Mycroft, faithful as always, had gotten him off the charges. Smug as he was, Sherlock had purposely strolled into a crime scene of Lestrade's and explained the details to him, basically pointing to the brother as the obvious criminal.

Yes, he had ended up being detained for 24 hours after that, but it had been worth it. Lestrade had been reluctant at first, but, after all the fuss Sherlock had put up in the first place, he eventually allowed the detective in on cases. Sherlock had been quietly grateful, of course, never one to admit thanks or anything of the sort. Losing Lestrade would mean losing the cases that took him away from the constant boredom.

He certainly couldn't have that.

Still pondering over the clue, Sherlock barely realized that the taxi had stopped and the cabbie was giving him odd looks. He flashed a fake apologetic smile and paid before leaving in a flash. Adrenaline and bits of excitement fuelled him again. It wasn't long before he caught sight of Donovan and John, walking side-by-side and looking as though they were arguing. He smirked a bit at this.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, sending a text rather than shouting. John turned around immediately, faced with a still-smirking Sherlock, but there was no smile on his face. This confused the man. Sally turned around as well, rolling her eyes.

"Welcome back, freak."


	3. Where've You Been?

**A/N: Well, the original plan was to post one chapter a day, but I'm not good with things like that. I've finished quite a few chapters so far and I'm pretty sure posting one more today wouldn't hurt at all. :) Please enjoy.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

Sherlock simply gave her a mocking smile and grabbed John's arm, pulling him towards the wall. He cast his gaze around cautiously, leaning closer to the other man when he was sure no one was watching. "Listen, John, this is important. Moriarty left me something."

He shoved his hand roughly into his pocket, fishing around for the pager. When he finally found the infernal device, John looked confused, but he held it up anyway. Understanding flashed across John's eyes and he nodded slowly. "That's… that's a pager. He hasn't given you a phone this time."

"No, likely he doesn't want to use his own voice again, even though we'll recognize it. Also likely that he doesn't want his number recognized. He's kidnapped a member of Scotland Yard. That's no simple crime," Sherlock explained quickly. "He's sent me a few messages but they don't stay. He's making it a game again, John. Everything he says… He keeps saying it's 'nice that you came out to play' and things like that… He sees this as a game again, John. This is bad."

"Bad, got it. Why?"

"It means he's bored, John. And you know very well what happens when Moriarty gets bored," Sherlock finished quietly, his eyes trained on John. For a moment, they lost their intensity, replaced by an emotion that neither could quite place. After a moment of silence, he shook his head and continued, "But that's not all. He left me a clue. It could mean any number of things, though. He said one of Lestrade's coworkers is lying…"

"What kind of clue is that?" John asked scornfully. He shook his head in confusion, still studying Sherlock's eyes in hopes of putting a name to that emotion that had flashed there, if only for a second. Was it possible that Sherlock regretted meeting Moriarty? No, that couldn't be it… the man was positively overjoyed by the thought of a puzzle… But then again…

"It could mean any number of things, as I said. I doubt that anyone here is working for Moriarty, but it is a possibility, and even then it doesn't give us much. There's the other possibility that perhaps someone is lying about where they've been in the past few days. This seems more plausible. The question is… who?"

"You're not seriously suggesting we investigate _everyone_ in this office?"

"Mmm. I hardly think it'll need to come to that. He said one of _Lestrade's_ coworkers - much more likely it's someone he directly works with rather than just another member of Scotland Yard. This makes it more likely that it's one of his team. The problem will be getting to the truth."

"The truth? A problem? For you?" John teased lightly. A smile ghosted Sherlock's face in response.

"Finding who is lying shouldn't be hard at all, if that's what you mean. The challenge will be figuring out where they really were in contrast to where they say they were."

"And how do you know that they're not lying about something else? It's just as easy to lie about what you had for lunch, Sherlock."

"Possible but not plausible. Moriarty _wants_ us to find Lestrade, John. He says the clock's counting down, but if Lestrade dies, the game is over and he is now being hunted even more."

John nodded slowly in understanding. Silence passed between the pair for a few moments before he spoke, slowly and deliberately, a small grin forming on his face. "Alright, Sherlock, where do we start?"

Sherlock grinned wickedly and John could barely contain his laughter. At the same time, they both declared, "Anderson."

* * *

"I have work to do-"

The protests fell on deaf ears as Anderson was forced into a meeting room with a smug-looking Sherlock and an only slightly less smug John. In all honesty, they were looking forward to this. It had been a stretch to convince anyone that they needed to do this, but the moment they'd mentioned it would help Lestrade, everything seemed to fall perfectly in place.

"-one of the first crime scenes I haven't had to stop you from contaminating-"

John and Sherlock exchanged a look as they listened to Anderson's protests. Of course he wouldn't be excited to talk to them, but he could make this easy if he would just cooperate!

"-alright, fine."

Finally, Anderson seemed to realize his babbling wasn't helping. Rolling his eyes, the man sat in the little plastic chair left for him. Leave it to Sherlock to take the comfortable chairs. He stared between the two men, uneasiness hitting him like a bullet. Being put in front of these two was basically putting himself in front of a firing squad.

"Anderson, where've you been lately?" John asked lightly, attempting to keep his tone polite. Beside him, Sherlock's face cleared of all emotion, but he did pull out a phone, typing a quick text to John. Anderson shuddered. So this was how they'd communicate. Ask him questions and then text each other their thoughts.

"At work, obviously, which is where I _should_ be right now," he grumbled.

"Obviously, but if you'd like to get back to work, then you'd do well to cooperate," John shrugged in reply.

"It's a simple question, really," Sherlock spoke slowly. "Where've you been lately besides home and work?"

"I don't think that matters-"

"If you want to find Lestrade, it does." The lightness from John's tone was gone, replaced by a flash of irritation. Surely Anderson had some sort of respect for Lestrade. At least enough respect to answer questions that may save the man's life!

"Nowhere, honestly. Just…"

"Just _what_?"

"Crime scenes."


	4. Expected That

**A/N: Four chapters in with one review. Well that's... encouraging. Thanks to all of you who favorited/alerted, and, of course, reviewed this story so far. This chapter, and the next few, will be a bit shorter, but enjoy anyway. :)**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"What? Surely you've been _somewhere_ else-"

"Anderson, we'll need the list of crime scenes you've been at lately. Now, leave," Sherlock commanded quickly, an order in which the other man took readily, though not without an annoyed sneer in the detective's direction. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sherlock looked back at John. "Damn him. He's telling the truth."

"Is he? Really?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Sherlock didn't offer an explanation for once. John rolled his eyes but nodded nevertheless, urging the detective to continue. "That means he's not the one lying. Well, obviously. Who else do we have to talk to?"

"Not much," John shrugged slowly. "The others shouldn't really take more than ten minutes. You and I both know Anderson was here longer because you wanted him to be."

Sherlock shrugged, a wicked grin flashing across his face again. "I was bored. Annoying him is fun. Why don't we start with our favourite Sergeant, then, John? Go fetch Donovan."

He watched as the other man left, leaving him alone with his thoughts finally. Sherlock drew slow, deep breaths, trying to think. Anderson hadn't been lying. No, the man barely got out of the house, where else would he be? And he'd looked up - a clear sign he was trying to recall something. Or perhaps Anderson was just well versed in how to lie properly, but even with that thought, Sherlock was sure he was right. Anderson had no real reason to lie, even if the two men hated each other.

There weren't many others he'd consider close coworkers of Lestrade's, though. There was Donovan, of course. An obvious factor. Frustrated, Sherlock reached for his phone again, quickly punching in the number for Anderson. He was surprised when the other man picked up and he commanded into the phone, "Anderson, there's no time. I need to know _now._"

He couldn't explain it, but something told him this was instrumental. He needed to know exactly where Anderson had been and why, lie or not. "Which crimes scenes have you been two in the past two days?"

"Just the two murders down by the Thames, and that murder in Brixton," Anderson replied, irritation creeping into his voice. "Is that it? I really have to get to work."

"The Thames…" Sherlock muttered, glancing around the room. This could mean something. After all, one of the murders from the original 'game' had occurred there. And Brixton… could that be 22 Northumberland Street? Sherlock shook his head in frustration. Either one could be it, or neither. He'd have to talk to Donovan and see if it all fit. Realizing the phone call was still going, he ended it with a quick, "No," just as Donovan and John entered the room.

"Ah, Sally," he greeted with a mock smile. She rolled her eyes and muttered what he was sure was 'freak.' "Sit down, will you? Ah, thank you, much better than Anderson. The man smells like women's deodorant, is his wife out again? Was he at your place this time?"

The withering look that Donovan shot him answered his question. He grinned in reply. A moment's staring contest and then Sherlock decided it would do good to start talking. He asked slowly, "Where've you been lately?"

"You sound like you miss me, freak," Donovan shook her head. "Hardly likely. It's not any of your business where I've been."

"Mm, I'm mistaken. You're doing just as badly as Anderson," Sherlock shrugged. "I need to know, it'll help us find Lestrade. Any crime scenes, Donovan? Anything at all?"

"No," she answered, much too sharply and quickly for his liking. "I busted my arm and Lestrade wouldn't let me in on the cases. Is that it then, freak?" Without waiting for an answer, she got up and simply left. The door swung shut behind her loudly, breaking the semi-shocked silence that had settled. While John looked annoyed, Sherlock simply looked amused.

"Expected that," he muttered.

"No you didn't," John informed him. "Alright, do we have anything?"

"Yes, no, and maybe," Sherlock offered in reply. John glared at him so he rolled his eyes and continued. "Donovan says she hasn't been to any crime scenes. We need to check that. Anderson's been to two by the Thames and one in Brixton. Yes, both are possibilities for finding Lestrade. If we pick the wrong one, though…"

"It won't end well," John finished for him. "Alright, then, how do we go about solving this now? Do you know how long Lestrade's got?"

"No idea at all. Moriarty hasn't given me a time limit, though I imagine there is one. As for going about this… Talk to coworkers. Question Anderson again. He might let something slip about Donovan."

"…she's the one lying?"

"Of course she is. Answers far too quick, and she's been looking down and to the left. She doesn't want to talk about this. In fact, she's hiding something. I'm disappointed, John, even you should have picked up on the signs."

"Right, thank you for reminding me that I'm an idiot."

"As I've told you before, practically everyone is. Now, come along, we've got more to do."

"And where are we going…?"

"I told you," Sherlock stood up, a smile on his face once again. He made his way to the door and it was swinging shut behind him before he called back, "To question things!"


	5. That's What This Is

**A/N: Chapter five for those of you reading. :) Thanks again to alerters, favoriters (if those are even words), and, of course, my sole reviewer so far, asininityJackal. I'm quite happy to announce that there are at least 15 more chapters for you all! Just thought I'd share that, because... well, this is probably the first time I've ever finished a story in advance (that wasn't a one-shot, obviously). Anyway, please enjoy the chapter.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

John exited the room rather quickly, eager to catch up to Sherlock. The other man was looking around the room, somewhat puzzled. He seemed to be having an internal battle, weighing the benefits and the risks of doing something. Finally, a smirk broke on his face and he stood up on the nearest desk, immediately calling attention to himself. John, shocked, whispered harshly, "Sherlock, what're you doing? Get down?"

"Patience, John," Sherlock muttered back. He turned his attention back to the rest of the room and began to speak rather loudly. "Which of you were at the crime scene in Brixton this week?" No one moved. Annoyed, he continued. "Honestly, raise your hand or something. This. Is. Important. You do want to find Lestrade, don't you?"

At the mention of the Detective Inspector's name, three hands shot up. He noticed that Anderson's wasn't one of them, despite the man being in the room. Shooting a dirty look in that direction, Sherlock nodded slowly. "Alright. If you've been part of the Brixton case, come over here please. That includes you, Anderson. It is of importance."

Still smirking, the detective jumped gracefully off the desk, landing just beside John. The other man looked startled but Sherlock's smirk only widened. He tapped his gloved fingers impatiently on the desk, waiting for the people to come see him. Perhaps they thought he was just another lunatic, but, thankfully, if they did, they showed up anyway. Anderson included. He didn't really recognize the other three.

"Sorry, sir, but what's this about?" squeaked a small redhead. The man next to her added, "Yes, what _is_ this?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Anderson answered with disgust. "_That's_ what this is."

If anything, his answer only seemed to confuse the other people more. Sherlock took advantage of this. "I need to talk to you. All of you. One by one. Dr. Watson will sit with you until it's your turn. Right, John?" A nod. "Do stay here. Your work can wait. And you-" he pointed at the girl who'd spoken originally "-are first. Come with me."

She looked reluctant but followed him anyway, back into the room he'd been in before. Sherlock gestured to the comfortable chair, choosing to stand, and studied her quickly. She was young, hadn't been part of Scotland Yard long. Likely on probation. Obviously she didn't know much, but she was vulnerable. He might be able to use this.

"Where in Brixton was the crime?" He asked slowly.

"I don't know, exactly, sir," she answered, shaking her head. "We visited a small flat off the main roads."

"Interesting," Sherlock nodded to himself. "The specifics of the crime?"

"A murder. Nasty one, too."

"Anything… different happen?"

"No, sir."

With that, he dismissed her, and tried the same questions on the next person he called in. This one was older, more used to working scenes, but even she couldn't give him overly specific information. He was getting frustrated by the time he called the man in. "Sit," Sherlock ordered curtly. "And do tell me you have information."

"That depends," the man answered, "on what you're asking."

Sherlock smirked a bit. This promised to be interesting. "Did anything different happen at the murder in Brixton?"

"No, sir," he said slowly, but the detective shook his head slowly. Something was off here. He narrowed his eyes and studied the man. Obviously not in the Scotland Yard long. He was probably easily swayed by higher authority, but he seemed rather sure of himself. Still, something screamed 'lie!' Same as Donovan, Sherlock noted. People were definitely hiding things from him, and he didn't like it one bit.

"I don't believe you. What is it you're not telling me?"

"Nothing," he answered more strongly, but it still seemed off. "The body and the murder weren't overly unusual in style or anything-"

"But that's not what you're hiding. Do give me the actual details. What happened that was odd?"

The man gulped, his face showing signs of the internal war. He bit his lip nervously before stuttering, "I-I don't think it… it was un-unusual. I thought Sergeant Donovan wasn't supposed to be working."

"_What?_" This piqued Sherlock's interest immediately. He leaned forward, staring intently at the frightened man, urging him forward.

"She… she was there," he muttered quickly. "Talked to Anderson and they… they left."

Realization flashed in Sherlock's eyes and he was out the door in a second, leaving a dumbfounded man behind. He raced down the hallway, skidding to a halt in front of Anderson. "You lied to me," he growled, but then his tone took a turn. "No, you didn't lie to me. She lied to me."

And he was moving again, swiftly dodging desks as he cut a path towards Donovan's desk. She looked shocked and confused when he stopped by her desk, but the emotions quickly turned to anger. "What now, freak?"

"Where did you and Anderson go after the Brixton crime scene?"

"What did you-"

"Don't lie to me. Moriarty said one of Lestrade's coworkers was lying. It was you. It had to have been you. Where were you, Donovan?"

"I don't-"

"Do you not realize how important this is?"

Donovan bit her lip, a nervous action he'd never seen from her before. Her gaze flicked downwards before she quietly muttered,

"22 Northumberland Street."

**A/N: Dun dun dun...**


	6. DI For Die

**A/N: I finished the entire story, including epilogue today, and, to celebrate this, I've decided to post a second chapter today! :) Thanks to all reviewers, alerters and favoriters so far! Please enjoy this chapter.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"22 Northumberland Street…"

He repeated the words softly, staring at something only he could see. He should have expected this. Of course, he'd considered the possibility, but it seemed too random. But why… _why_ would they have gone there, of all places? He'd expected a hotel address, perhaps. But 22 Northumberland Street?

"Moriarty sent me a note," she continued to mutter, eyes glued to the desk. "Saying that I'd get to 22 Northumberland Street if I wanted to live… We got there and it was just… empty. Nothing left, Sherlock, of the crime scene. And no furniture, either. I didn't understand."

"And now you do," he barely noticed she'd forgotten to call him 'freak.' "Moriarty wanted you to lie… he wanted me to find out you were lying… you weren't going to die either way… but he knew, oh he knew. This is good."

"It is?" A voice came from behind them. Sherlock nodded without looking, and the voice continued. "Then shouldn't we be going there? Lestrade is still missing, Sherlock…"

Sherlock turned around to come face-to-face with John and nodded again. Behind them, Donovan stood up abruptly. "I'm coming," she declared.

"Could be dangerous-" the men started.

"I'm part of Scotland Yard," she scoffed. "And you have a habit of getting in dangerous situations."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded anyway. He walked swiftly past John, lightly touching the other man's arm as he went. This was far too exciting to wait for the other two - they'd catch up. And sure enough, they did, just as he reached the street. He ignored the annoyed mumbles, flagging the first taxi that went by. Without hesitation, he commanded, "22 Northumberland Street."

"Sherlock, you could at least wait for us," John muttered. The door of the taxi hadn't even closed yet, and Donovan had just gotten in. Sherlock shrugged in reply, that annoying smirk playing on his face. "Fine, so you won't wait. Are you sure about this though?"

"Positive."

"And what if we don't find him?" If he didn't know any better, John could have sworn that there was a hint of fear in Donovan's voice. He shook off the notion quickly. Definitely not. This was a woman who constantly worked crime scenes, surely she'd had to deal with something like this before. But, then again, considering who had been kidnapped…

"We will." Sherlock's voice, as always, held a note of positivity and finality about it. How could he be so sure? John wondered silently. He knew better than to question the detective, but they both knew Moriarty's game never stayed the same. They could be walking into a trap just as easily as they had before.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, though it was hardly a comfortable one. Sherlock's gaze was fixed on something outside the window, though he paid no mind to any of the images that flashed by. Situations and plans, good and bad, were being pieced together in his head. John never looked at anything for long, though he did find himself watching the detective more than once. He wanted so badly to know what was going on in Sherlock's mind but knew better than to ask.

When the cab finally pulled up outside 22 Northumberland Street, the trio couldn't get out of the taxi fast enough. John tripped over his own feet, delaying Sherlock from leaving, and earned himself an irritated look which he attempted to brush off with a quick "sorry." The cabbie was paid and they stood together on the sidewalk, staring up at the building. As odd as it was, John found a slight bit of sentimentality about it; this was where the first case he'd worked with Sherlock had been.

"Alright," Sherlock muttered, catching the attention of the other two. "This could just as easily be a trap. _I_ go first. Don't say anything that could jeopardize this. We don't even know if Lestrade will be there. This could be another piece of the puzzle… even then, be careful of what you do. Carelessness could easily make you share Lestrade's less than great situation. Understood?"

Donovan looked as though she might argue, but John cut her off quickly. "Of course, Sherlock. But… shouldn't we have a distress signal of some sort? If Moriarty really does want to kidnap one of us?"

"It's not a spy movie, John."

"But it might help," Donovan announced, glaring at Sherlock. "Alright, if you get caught… I don't know, yell 'DI'."

"And why 'DI'?" Sherlock countered with a withering look.

"Simple. DI… Detective Inspector, obviously, because Moriarty would probably take us to wherever Lestrade is," she exclaimed quickly, ignoring the detective's irritated scoff. "Also, die, I suppose."

"Morbid, but meaningful," John agreed.

"Right," Sherlock nodded, turning away from them and approaching the door. He had it open in seconds. "Now that we've settled that, let's _go._ Need I remind you of what happens if we're even a second too late?"

This stopped any arguments instantaneously. Sherlock only paused to check that the others were following him closely before he began to make his way up the old stairs, taking two steps with each stride. He flinched every time the stairs creaked beneath his feet. Nothing like alerting your enemies that you were there.

The climb took longer than he remembered. By the time they reached the room that the Pink Lady had died in, each person was out of breath. The detective allowed them about five seconds to catch their breath before reaching for the doorknob. He only hesitated for a moment before flinging the door open.

Behind him, Donovan gasped.

**A/N: Oh no! Why did she gasp? What does she see? Or what doesn't she see? Find out in the next chapter!**


	7. Sherlock, Help

**A/N: Chapter 7 for all of you. Please enjoy. :)**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

It was a little bit like a scene out of a horror movie. Blood stains on the ancient wood, a handprint on the wall. A chair was bolted in the middle of the room, and, next to it, a bloodied knife. But there was one component extra, and one essential part missing.

Propped up on the chair, a letter. Missing from the room, the Detective Inspector. Even Sherlock had to take a deep breath before stepping into the room. He could only imagine what had occurred here, and couldn't help but wonder if Lestrade was even still alive. His eyes flicked over the bloodied knife, wondering briefly if it had any fingerprints. Of course not. Moriarty wasn't so stupid as to leave any fingerprints, and, on the case that he or his men did, they'd really have nothing to track him by.

He reached forward carefully, grabbing the letter and studying each bit of it. Same stationary. He frowned. Moriarty had left him a pager, so why leave a letter? It just didn't fit together. Was it trapped? Possible, but not quite plausible… ending the game now wouldn't be much fun at all, would it?

Just on time, the pager beeped in his pocket. Sherlock haphazardly reached for it with his free hand, eager to get the message. Behind him, John approached, reading it over his shoulder with a much more dismal face.

"Good job, my detective. You found out who was lying. Mmm, but that was much too easy, wasn't it? You'll find your next clue in the letter… if Lestrade did as he was told. He's rather fussy when he's having trouble breathing."

Sherlock's eyes widened at this but he fought to remain calm. The message played over again, as it had before, and he stuffed the pager back into his pocket, leaving it up to John to inform Donovan. Instead, he ripped open the envelope, all caution towards it gone. His heart sunk at the sight of it. The words weren't written in pen, or anything close. No ink could be this red…

So it was Lestrade's blood. Probably written by Lestrade, too. Or at least he hoped. The Detective Inspector was no idiot - he'd do anything to leave Sherlock a clue, wouldn't he? Still, Sherlock was uneasy as he read the words aloud.

"Sherlock,

Carl Powers. Shoes.

Help.

Lestrade."

He screwed his eyes shut in frustration, allowing himself to yell at no one in particular. "That can't be it! Damnit! Shoes… shoes… what exactly? Is he saying he's getting poisoned? No… Moriarty wants us to find him alive… then what is it? The pool's under guard… it can't be there…"

"Sherlock, calm down," John ordered quietly, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. He was surprised when his hand wasn't shaken off. "You'll find him. You'll solve this. You always do. But stressing yourself is _not_ going to help."

"Lestrade has a limited amount of time," Sherlock growled in response, whipping around to face the Doctor. His brilliant blue eyes burned liked fire, but the slight tremor in his hands were a stark contrast. "We have to figure this out. _Now._ There's no time. No time at all. Look at the room! It's hardly a place for tea and biscuits. You know as well as I do. We have to figure this out _now_, not later!"

"Alright, alright, I wasn't suggesting you stop," John countered, staring back just as steadily. Most men would flinch under that famous flare, but he knew better. For once, what drove Sherlock wasn't pure adrenaline and excitement - there was fear, and panic, as well. "But you do need to calm down. And eat something. Most people think better when they do."

"I don't eat when I'm on a case."

"Now you do."

* * *

About an hour later, Sherlock did, in fact, find himself back at 221B Baker Street, eating an odd sort of sandwich that John had put together for him. He'd spent most of the time refusing it, going over the facts aloud instead, but, after so long of getting nagged by John, he finally gave in. He hadn't even noticed that he was hungry, but as he started to eat it became clear. Adrenaline never left room for hunger.

Between every bite, however, he did continue to talk, and glared at John whenever his mouth was full. His companion only grinned back over his own food. In the hour that had gone by, they'd hardly gotten anywhere. John was just about fed up with Sherlock's outward musings, but he said nothing. If it helped to have someone to talk to… well, he couldn't deny that, could he?

"So, which options are most plausible, again?" John asked, forcing himself to eat another bite of the meagre sandwich.

"The pool is impossible… often guarded, and too wide range for him to expect us there," Sherlock informed him. "Carl Power's home is currently inhabited by a family. I called them earlier, they've found no bodies."

John snorted over his food. "You honestly called and asked them if they found a body in their home? Because surely _that's_ not suspicious at all."

"If it was, they didn't call it in. But that's not the point. They haven't found anything, so we can rule that out. It's still possible but I don't expect Moriarty wants us to travel far."

"Which leaves…?"

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered. "Nothing overly possible. We've checked just about every linked to Carl Powers. Except…"

He stopped for a moment, the gears turning in his head. Realization flashed in his eyes and he stood up abruptly, dropping the sandwich back to the plate. His eyes locked on John's for a moment and, in a voice that suggested they were both idiots, he declared, "We missed the obvious, John. How could we have missed it? There's no time for sandwiches."

Spinning on his heel, the man all but raced over to the landing, where he yelled down the stairs, "Mrs. Hudson!"


	8. It Starts Again

**A/N: Chapter 8 for all of you. Please enjoy. I don't have much to say today... Maybe because it's really early in the morning.**

**Anyway, I don't own Sherlock.**

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled again, more urgently this time. When she didn't answer, he launched himself down the stairs, barely staying upright when he reached the bottom. Just behind him, John slid to a stop, slightly confused.

"Why are you calling Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled again, but found no answer. Sherlock made his way towards the landlady's quarters, not even bothering to knock as he opened her door. "Oh, for God's sake. She must be deaf."

"She _is_ an old lady," John grumbled, standing back to watch the detective. Sherlock didn't even bother to ask as he grabbed the keys hanging from one of the hooks on the wall. How he knew it was the right key, John didn't know, but he followed anyway when Sherlock sped back down the hallway.

"I don't understand," he started, but stopped as the realization hit him as well. _Carl Powers. Shoes._ Where had they found the shoes, of all places? They'd been thinking of the wrong things the whole time! It wasn't Carl Powers that was the important part in the message, it was the _shoes_! The realization struck a slight fear in him. Uneasy, he waited for the door to unlock.

Sherlock fiddled with the lock, finally forcing it open after what seemed like ages. The lock was hardly ever opened, he noticed, but now wasn't the time to ponder such things. As soon as the lock was off, he opened the door forcefully and took the stairs two at a time. What met them at the bottom was a sight he knew he'd never unsee.

"Grab the phone, John!" He screamed up at the Doctor, staring at the scene in front of him. "Call an ambulance! We've found him!"

* * *

By the time the ambulance showed up, Sherlock had taken to pacing across the floor, occasionally stealing glances at the man in front of him. The once clean flat was now just as bloodstained as Lestrade, with glints of what looked like teeth lying here and there. The Detective Inspector himself wasn't conscious in the least bit. It was worrying, to say the least. He could do nothing until the paramedics showed up.

"Calm down, Sherlock," a soft voice told him. He stopped and turned to find John standing there, looking sadly at Lestrade. Sherlock's own panic was mirrored in his friend's eyes. They both knew quite well that the ambulance would need to arrive with lightning speed if Lestrade had any hope of surviving, but someone seemed to have failed to communicate this, because, after ten minutes, there was still no sign.

"We've found him," Sherlock breathed in relief. He put his hand gently on John's shoulder, forcing him to look away from Lestrade. The pair stood there like that for what seemed like forever, eyes locked and words failing, until the familiar wail of sirens rang through the apartment. In a flash, the paramedics were down the stairs. They all seemed startled by the sight but continued about their work anyway, screaming things that made no real sense to the detective. He didn't care, either. He was tired… far more tired than he'd ever admit to. And finding Lestrade in this state was a blow. He'd expected it, but…

"Sir, come with me," a voice interrupted his thoughts. Both men turned to look at a paramedic. Sherlock rolled his eyes but John only nodded, both knowing full well that they'd now be given shock blankets and drilled for information. Neither of them had ever really taken comfort in the orange blankets, but they obliged anyways, following the man. At least, John did so willingly, but Sherlock had to be pulled along to get him to move.

The ambulance had left, so they sat side-by-side on the stairs, neither particularly willing to glance in the direction of where they'd found Lestrade. Neither spoke, only stared ahead at the door, pointedly ignoring the paramedic that had been left with them. Each question stayed unanswered, from the simplest things such as their names to how they'd found the Detective Inspector.

Finally realizing that he was getting nowhere, the paramedic just rolled his eyes and stopped talking. He could only hope that the men would start talking to one another and then he'd be able to talk to them. Thankfully, things seemed to be in favour for him that day, because they surely did start talking. The taller, dark-haired man turned to his friend and quietly asked, "Are you alright?"

"Of course," the other answered, but his voice wasn't quite steady. "I've… I've seen worse."

"I doubt that," the dark-haired man replied, a ghost of a smile passing over his face. "Close to, but not worse. What do you figure, John? Is this the end of it?"

"Doubt it," John replied with slightly more confidence. "He's never one to leave you alone. Lucky Lestrade lived… But then, you did say he wanted you to find him." The man shuddered before continuing. "Still, I don't ever want to see _that_ again."

"If you're right, we may have to," Sherlock answered. "How long do you figure, though? How long do we have before it starts again?"

"Hell, I don't know," John whispered. "And I don't want to."

* * *

Just after midnight, after the paramedic had left and John had long fallen asleep on the sofa, a beep caught Sherlock's attention. His eyes widened and he reached for the pager immediately, eyes eager for each word. He didn't want it to end the same way this time.

"Dear Sherlock, I knew you'd find him. But the game's not over yet. Let's see how well you play when it's _their_ lives at stake."

**A/N: Dun dun dun dun... it's not over yet! What happens next? **


	9. Stable

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, guys. It HAS been pointed out to me, more than once, that John would have used his medical knowledge. I did consider having this however I have just about no knowledge in the medical field and would honestly prefer not to write about something I know nothing about. Also, where would he have gotten the instruments and medical supplies to help Lestrade? Thin air? …yeah, that would be skilled. But I appreciate those of you taking the time to read and review, and, yes, I have noted your opinions on that matter. I will make sure not to forget exactly what/who John is in the future. :) Please enjoy this chapter.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"_Their lives at stake,_" Sherlock read quietly, eyes moving rapidly as he thought about this. Who could they be? Obviously someone close to him… but there weren't many people close to him at all, and he seriously doubted that Moriarty would bother to kidnap Mrs. Hudson. She'd probably have a heart attack and then there'd be no game at all. The man shut his eyes tight, willing himself to think. _Think._

Just then, his cellphone buzzed in his pocket. He grabbed for it, hoping that perhaps it would give him a clue of some sort, but found himself disappointed by it. A text, but not one from Moriarty.

'Lestrade is stable

MH'

It was slightly relieving to know Lestrade would live, but he'd never liked his brother texting him. Obviously Mycroft was wrapped up in something again, because otherwise they'd be talking in person. Sherlock snorted. Considering how badly the pair got along, this was a much better alternative. Still, it had just taken precious seconds from the time he had to think.

_Their_ lives. Who was they? He ran over the options in his mind. There was no way it could be Mrs. Hudson, he'd already established that. Mycroft was obviously safe and that man had enough security around him to stop anything. Lestrade had already been through enough and wouldn't be any real use in his current condition. And there was John, of course, but the Doctor was always under a watchful eye since the first run-in with Moriarty. Sherlock had found himself becoming more and more protective of his blogger, constantly watching him and wondering where he'd gone, lest the same thing may occur again. Yes, he was sure it couldn't be any of those four.

But then… who? Frustrated, Sherlock tossed his cellphone across the couch. It landed with a satisfying crunch, though he did hope it didn't break. On the case that it did, though, he could always use John's. He smirked a little bit and cast a glance in John's direction. The man was fast asleep, completely oblivious to the world around him. It would be so easy to take his phone… he was so vulnerable at times.

The last thought struck a slight panic through him. If John was so vulnerable at home, surely he wasn't like that on the streets? Maybe the man wasn't as safe as he'd thought… no, there was no way Moriarty would go after John again. He wouldn't let it happen, not this time.

* * *

Sherlock had fallen asleep fitfully contemplating the identity of 'they'. When he woke, he was greeted with a rather unusual sight. John was actually awake before him, and talking quietly with a woman he vaguely recognized. In his tired state, it took him a moment to remember her name. This was Mycroft's assistant. Anthea. But why would she be here?

He feigned sleep for a moment to catch her words, but she spoke so softly that he couldn't. Instead, he gave up and strolled over to the pair, albeit a little bit haphazardly. They turned to look at him, John looking rather panicked while Anthea kept her normal composure. He nodded a greeting.

"Sherlock," John began, stopping to search for the right words. "There's a bit of a situation… You wouldn't happen to know where your brother is, would you?"

Surprise wrote itself across Sherlock's face, making itself very apparent before he could control it. Mycroft… Mycroft. Why him? It wouldn't be easy to get a man of such security… perhaps he'd just gone to the dentist again without telling anyone… but that wasn't like his brother at all. Sure, Mycroft was as prone to disappearing as Sherlock was, but he often informed at least Anthea before he did.

It was all falling into place, he realized. He should have expected Mycroft. Moriarty would have known he'd think his brother safe and not even bother… And what if the text hadn't even been sent by Mycroft at all? It could have been sent as a way to reassure him into thinking more of security. Lestrade might not even be stable at all.

Rather than answering the question, Sherlock looked between the pair. "Is Lestrade stable?" he demanded.

"I don't-" John started, but shook his head quickly. Of course he'd never understand what Sherlock was thinking exactly, but it couldn't hurt to ask. "He's still critical, high chance of infection, that sort of thing. What are you thinking, Sherlock?"

In answer, the detective grabbed his phone from where it had been left on the couch and held it out to the others, showing the text he'd received the night before. "_This _was sent to me about midnight last night. I should have known this would happen… Moriarty said 'they'… he all but told me… I should have known this was off…"

"Sherlock, what are you going on about?" John asked, slightly irritated in his confusion. Sherlock grabbed the pager this time and threw it haphazardly at John, who caught it, but he was met with an empty screen. "I don't get it."

"The messages are always erased. I don't know how. But he sent me another message. He said he knew I'd find Lestrade. He told me it's not over, John, and he… he mentioned 'they.' I don't know who they is, before you ask. But he said their lives were at stake… I should have known it would be Mycroft."

"But the text…? Where does that come in?" Anthea asked now, staring between the detective and doctor.

"Don't you see?" Sherlock demanded, shaking his head in frustration. "This text was sent to me just after midnight. _Midnight!_ And Lestrade is still critical. Meaning Mycroft didn't send that text. Moriarty did. To… to make me think Mycroft would be fine!

"Don't you see? He's been playing me all along!"


	10. Hold On

**A/N: Woot! Chapter 10. Almost halfway through the story. :) I've been pretty busy today but, hey, still found time to update this. Please enjoy.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

Realization flashed in John's eyes. He froze for a moment, staring at Sherlock in something close to shock. It was brilliant, of course. Completely brilliant of Moriarty. But why hadn't they expected this? And why hadn't Sherlock told him the moment he'd gotten the messages? If anything bugged him more than Mycroft's disappearance, it was this. They were partners, weren't they? He'd almost say partners in crime, but that just didn't work out. The thought that Sherlock would keep something like this from him hit him hard, but he didn't say anything, only forced himself to nod.

"Anthea, keep your people searching for him," Sherlock commanded, frowning a bit at the look on John's face. He was only slightly confused by it but brushed it off. Perhaps he was just seeing things.

"Yes, of course," Anthea nodded and took her leave, leaving the two men alone in the flat. They stared at each other, speechless, daring the other to speak first. A few moments of tension-filled silence passed before Sherlock finally gave up and, frustrated, asked, "_What_?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" John's voice was steady, but the irritation and hurt there was clear. The detective looked rather shocked at this question. He hadn't even once thought to wake the doctor, it hadn't seemed important at all. So why would John be so irritated with him?

"You were sleeping," Sherlock pointed out as if it would answer everything.

"Then why didn't you wake me?"

"Because it didn't seem important," his tone was flat, but at least his words were honest. Sherlock hesitated for a moment - _actually_ hesitated - and then forced himself to speak again. "And because I wasn't sure who he meant by 'they.'"

"And you think…" John trailed off, realization sparking in his eyes again. Sherlock nodded and he drew a deep breath. They. _They_. Sherlock had thought of him first, and yet he hadn't even thought of himself as a possibility. A shot of fear unexpectedly hit him - he'd already dealt with Moriarty once, and he'd witnessed exactly what happened when the man wanted to 'play.' Of all things, he definitely did _not_ want to end up like Lestrade, or wired with enough bombs to blow up all of London again. It all made sense now, he realized.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, relieved that he didn't have to explain his motives to John. That was one of the reasons he liked the man: John was ordinary, yes, but he was no fool. Throughout the years he'd met men like him, but, for some reason, none of them stuck. He never did well with the few that matched his intellect - they only annoyed him further - and others, far more ordinary than John, just bored him. Somehow the Doctor was a median and he liked that.

"So what do we do next, then?"

The detective thought for a moment before shrugging. "You aren't worried at all? Interesting."

"Not really. Well, I suppose, yes, but worrying's not going to help any. And you obviously want to find Mycroft. So, what is our next order of business?"

Sherlock took the pager back from John, turned it over in his hands and then shrugged grudgingly. "We wait."

* * *

Of all things, Sherlock Holmes _hated_ waiting. He hated feeling vulnerable, like he couldn't do anything before the rest of the world did. And Moriarty seemed to know that, because he was definitely delaying. Every few minutes, Sherlock would grab the pager from his pocket and look at it again, only to be disappointed with the blank screen that greeted him. It felt like days before there was actually any sign, and by then, he was so tired of it that he thought he'd imagined the beep.

"Sherlock!" John called at him, eyes wide and hands pointing to the pager. "Sherlock, it just beeped at you. Didn't you hear it? Pick it up! It could be helpful."

"What? Oh," he couldn't believe that he hadn't really noticed it. His hands shot forward, grabbing for the device. It was already showing signs of being badly handled, but he didn't really care. He scanned the message quickly before throwing it to John as it played a second time.

"'Sherlock, hold on to your pets,'" he read aloud, frowning at the message. "'They always seem to go astray. And then there's your brother… did you really think he was safe?'" John shot a quick, worried look at Sherlock, but there was no emotion on his friend's face. "'Never fear, dear, I said _they._ Hold on to your other pets. And in the mean time, let me give you some friendly advice…'"

"'Recharge and return,'" Sherlock muttered, finishing for John. He ran his hands through his dark curls, but even when he dropped them back to his lap they were twitching with nervous energy. "But what does it _mean_?"

"Recharge… Maybe he wants you to sleep?" John suggested. "Maybe he's telling you Mycroft's safe enough for you to sleep for now."

"Possible," the detective agreed, "but how does he expect me to sleep? Recharge… recharge… fine, I can do that… But return. What does he mean, _return_? I don't understand!"

For good measure, he tossed a pillow across the room, satisfied when it hit the wall and then bounced to the floor. John, on the other hand, looked less than satisfied. He approached Sherlock, and, as the detective simply looked at him in confusion, grabbed the man's wrist. He pulled Sherlock off the couch and towards his bedroom, letting go only when they were in the entrance. "Go. To. Bed. Recharge. Mycroft is strong, he'll last."

"But I don't need sleep on a case!"

"Don't give me that. Everyone needs sleep. Now, go," John pointed at the other man's bed, a stern expression on his face. It was hard not to laugh at the situation. Surely it sounded like so many argument he'd had as a child, fighting his parents to let him stay awake. Except now he'd taken on the parent role, and, well, the child was no child at all.

"Not here," Sherlock growled, pacing back into the living room and flopping down on the couch. "If you're going to force me to sleep, Dr. Watson, then you're staying in the same room, and I'm sure you'd be much more comfortable if it wasn't the _bedroom_."

"Funny," John rolled his eyes, falling onto a chair himself. "But sleep, Sherlock. You can think when you wake up. Let your mind rest for a few."

"I'm always thinking," he muttered, but his eyes shut anyway.


	11. Recharge

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, alerts, and favorites, guys. Chapter 11 for you. Now we're exactly halfway through the story. Excited? You should be. :) Please enjoy this chapter!**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

He didn't sleep long at all this time, but when he awoke, he did feel a little bit better. A glance at the clock told him it was just after five. Funny, he thought with a twisted smile, that all this had started only early yesterday. It couldn't have been more than 35 hours ago that this had all started. In a way, he was proud of this fact. It could have taken any ordinary person much longer to track down the DI. He'd managed it in such a short time!

John stirred in his chair and Sherlock couldn't help but smile. The man looked just so peaceful, he didn't have the heart to wake him up. Instead, he paced as silently as he possibly could. His gaze occasionally flickered to his sleeping friend but he fought the urge to wake him. It would be useful to have someone to talk to… but John needed sleep. It was hard to stop himself from talking out loud, though, and it was becoming a pain to do so.

After a while of dead ends in his own head, Sherlock abruptly stopped pacing and grabbed his jacket. He put it on quickly, debating on the scarf. Another twisted smile ghosted his face. Would it be worth the risk? It wasn't as if he enjoyed being choked… But, if worse came to worse, at least he'd die warm. He wrapped the navy blue scarf around his neck and exited the flat as quietly as he could, only pausing once to notice the absence of police downstairs. Odd. The police tape was still there, blocking off the other flat… he shook his head. The police would need to sleep, too, of course.

He took to pacing outside, or, more accurately, walking along the street and turning around when he reached an end. It must have looked odd, surely, but he needed fresh air and to _think_. Sitting in the flat wasn't going to help that. After a few frustrated minutes, he decided to expand his range and began to walk aimlessly, taking turns and corners he only vaguely recognized. Of course, he knew each street in London, but that didn't mean he'd have to actually notice his location.

By the time he stopped walking, he was in a small park. Few children ran about, and even fewer adults walked by. It was getting late, he reminded himself, there was nothing suspicious about this. The tranquility allowed him to think more easily, and, though he'd never admit it, the lack of movement also helped as well. He collapsed to the damp ground and tugged at the grass absentmindedly.

_Return._ What did return mean? They'd figured out recharge, hadn't they? Sleep seemed plausible for recharge, unless Moriarty had meant recharge the pager, but it didn't seem to be low on battery. Then again, he didn't know how to check. But he allowed himself to liken recharge to sleep and still pondered over the other word. What could return possibly mean?

Return to sender, or return to a place? Return to a line of thought, or return something stolen? He shook his head in frustration. Really, it could be any of those. Return to sender could be the envelope, he'd be expected to give it and the pager back, but that really didn't make much sense. Return to a place could be any place of thousands, and he couldn't imagine it being the flat, what with the police tape and constant police walking in and out of where Lestrade had been held. Return to a line of thought could be _anything_, from the idea that Lestrade had been at 22 Northumberland Street to a suggestion of muffins for breakfast. And… well, as far as he knew, he hadn't stolen anything.

Sherlock was vaguely wondering if he really should return to the flat when his cellphone vibrated in his pocket. Confused, he drew it out and searched through the three new text messages he'd gotten. Two from Donovan, unimportant, asking him to come into the Yard to answer questions. And then… one that caught his attention. He nearly dropped the phone at the realization of what it said, and what it implied.

'Lestrade is stable

JW'

It was the same message Moriarty had sent, posing as Mycroft, sent from John. It could easily be harmless, he knew, but something told him otherwise. Eyes wide, he quickly dialled Scotland Yard, not even bothering to be annoyed when it was Anderson who answered. "Is Lestrade stable?" he demanded.

"Yes, but-" Anderson started.

"How long?"

"How long _what_?"

"How long has he been stable? Damnit, Anderson, I need to know this! Now!"

"Since eleven this morning." With that answer in mind, Sherlock snapped the phone shut, breathing rapidly. This could mean one of two things. Either John had just received the news and was safe, or Moriarty was purposelessly playing with him and he _wasn't_ safe. Stupid! How could he have been so stupid as to leave John alone in the flat?

Without a second thought, he took off, coat fluttering behind him as he ran. There was a panicked buzz in the back of his mind, urging him to go faster, _faster_, he had to go faster, or he wasn't going to get there in time… but no matter how fast he ran, he wasn't going to get there in time anyway… The panic increased as he turned down the road towards their flat, forcing himself to sprint even faster. He slammed the door open, not even bothering with the look of surprised earned by Mrs. Hudson, and took the stairs three at a time, all the while yelling, "John! John!"

He slid to a stop just inside the flat, eyes scanning everything. John wasn't where he'd been before. The peaceful man he'd left before was missing from his spot, and, as it seemed, really and truly _gone_. Sherlock fought the urge to scream, instead raising his hand and smashing it into the wall. He hadn't gotten this upset in ages. The anger and panic coursed through his veins, fuelling him as he drew his arm back and smashed his fist into the wall once again.

"Damn him!" he gave into the urge and yelled it as loud as he could. "Damn him! He can't do this!"

Another punch to the wall, and he slid down, all energy gone in that moment. Sherlock rested his head against the wall, fighting the same emotions he'd fought all his life. This was why he never attached himself to anyone. They were always taken away from him.

And this time, it wasn't just one life at stake to be lost.

It was two.

**A/N: Uh oh spaghetti-o! ...okay, just had to say that. Anyway, moving on.**


	12. The First Return

**A/N: Hello again. Chapter 12, yay. :) Thanks, once again, to the reviewers and alerters and favoriters. I still haven't figured out if favoriters is a word but, for my purposes, it will be. Anyway, please enjoy.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

Sherlock stayed like that for far too long. He knew that time was of the essence, knew very well that things could get even worse than they were. But, for once in his life, he couldn't stop the raw emotions from hitting him. They ripped through him like bullets, tearing apart the not-so-bulletproof vest he'd thought he'd worn throughout his entire life. No, he was completely powerless to stop it all.

And he _hated_ it.

He stayed there, fighting the urge to strike the wall again. His hand had already begun taking odd shades of purples and pinks, and it throbbed, but he forced himself to ignore it. Pain was just one of the body's indicators that he'd done something wrong. It didn't last forever, he could get past it. And he did. He breathed slowly, numbing the pain, but it hardly put a dent on the emotions that were flooding him. Panic. Defeat. Anxiety. All because of Moriarty, all for Mycroft and John.

Sherlock sat until the darkness enveloped him and he managed to push away the emotions. Just as he slowly staggered to his feet, a small beep sounded from his pocket. His eyes narrowed. Moriarty was just teasing him. But he forced the anger to the back of his mind, knowing full well that it would do nothing to help him. Instead, he focussed solely on the words scrolling across the tiny screen.

"I told you to look after your pets. Tsk, tsk, dear, now they've all run away… well, not willingly, but they did anyway. My detective, haven't you figured it out yet? I thought you'd know. Return, Sherlock, you've obviously already recharged.'

The message ended there. It took all of his strength to resist the urge to throw the pager across the room. This wasn't a clue at all, only a taunting message. But it did remind him of the task at hand. Return. Return. That's what he'd been thinking of. But where to?

Like he'd done earlier, Sherlock made his way down the stairs, but he paused again outside the other flat. There were no members of Scotland Yard here, and the police tape looked ripped. He frowned and leaned forward, staring intently at it. Surely they wouldn't leave it unguarded for so long? Curiosity drove him on and he ducked under the tape, slowly descending down the stairs into what had basically been Lestrade's torture room.

At the first glance around, nothing seemed out of ordinary. Well, out of ordinary for a room still covered in blood. He involuntarily shuddered at this. It hadn't even been cleaned up yet. Even the teeth still lay on the ground, here and there. Nothing really seemed off. It frustrated him. Sure, he'd returned to a place he'd been earlier, and a line of thought at the same time, but he couldn't see anything new here!

He turned around to leave when it caught his eye. He hadn't been facing it before, but, written across one of the floorboards, was a word. Black ink on blood, he noted, leaning forward to examine it. In morbid letters, it proclaimed "Lestrade."

_Lestrade._ Well, that was certainly morbid, considering exactly who had been tortured here. But what did it mean? Was he supposed to talk to the man? That seemed plausible, but he'd expected more than this. It did satisfy him to think that perhaps he'd actually been thinking right to come in here. Maybe this was _return_ after all. Return to the torture room, to the original line of thought. Good, he was back on track.

Sherlock took off again, out of the building and onto the street, where he frantically tried to hail a taxi. Quite a few passed by before one finally stopped for him, and he spat out the hospital's name as fast as he possibly could. The cabbie nodded as he pulled out his phone, dialling the numbers for Scotland Yard again. In moments, the phone was answered by a voice distinctly female. Great, just what he needed. Donovan.

"Donovan, is Lestrade awake?" he demanded.

"Last time I checked he was… but you can't wake him up, if he's asleep. I don't care if you're saving the Queen, freak, he needs to rest," Donovan all but spat through the phone. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snapped the phone shut. In his mind, he urged the taxi on. If he had telepathy - or whatever it was called - he'd definitely be using it on the cabbie. Unfortunately, however, Sherlock definitely did _not_ believe in that sort of thing.

The ride was surprisingly short, and this time he actually remembered to pay the cabbie right away. Forcing a smile for the man, Sherlock turned and raced off towards the hospital. His hand ached a bit as he pumped it through the air but he forced himself to ignore it. The knuckle could be broken, for all he knew, but it didn't matter. What mattered now was finding and talking to Lestrade.

He barely stopped long enough to ask the receptionist which room he'd find the DI in, and then was off again, completely ignoring her yell of "you can't wake him!" Sherlock slid to a stop outside the man's room, catching his breath before he would enter. He studied the glass door, finding nothing of particular interest. But, the moment his hand touched the doorknob, the pager beeped again.

'Let him sleep. This part's important, dear. We can't have you trying to wake him, or I'll be sure he'll never wake again.'

"Morbid message," he murmured, but decided to follow the advice anyway. The last thing he needed was a dead Lestrade, which would quickly by followed by a dead John and Mycroft. He forced back the panic at the thought of them dying. No, no… he wouldn't let that happen. They had to survive, at least for him.

When he entered the room, he wasn't at all surprised to find Lestrade sleeping peacefully. It frustrated him, but he sat down in the plush chair next to the bed anyway, choosing to study the man's face. His head was heavily bandaged, and other bandages of varying sizes could be seen on the exposed parts of him. Even the man's wrists bore signs of his ordeal. Sherlock sighed, silently glad that Lestrade was alive.

He sat in the darkened room for what must have been at least two hours, staring at the face of the man he'd come to know and not know at the same time. Despite the situation, there was a small part of him that didn't want the DI to wake. The scene reminded him so much of John and earlier that day, when he'd woken and decided to let the other man sleep peacefully and quietly. That had been a mistake…

Surely letting Lestrade sleep couldn't hurt anything.

Near the end of those two hours, Lestrade's eyes finally fluttered open. He looked confused for a few moments, eyes darting around the room before they settled on Sherlock and seemed to relax. In a raspy voice, he greeted, "Sherlock."

"Lestrade," the detective greeted in return. "Are you… better?"

"Better, yes. Alright, no."

"At least you're honest."

"Mm. I suppose there's that. But, if you haven't forgotten…"

"Forgotten _what_?"

"I spent a little time getting up close and personal with Moriarty, Sherlock. Of course I wouldn't be alright."

"True," Sherlock's intense gaze softened a bit. He coughed in attempt to regain his composure. "But you'll live, of course."

"Of course," Lestrade answered, rolling his eyes for good measure. "If it keeps you happy, sure."


	13. Why Help?

**A/N: Chapter 13! :) Anybody interested in hearing from our still quite injured Lestrade? Well... I hope so, because that's where this is going. But you probably guessed that from the last chapter. Anyway, please enjoy this.**

**I don't own Sherlock. At all.**

"Of course it keeps me happy, it just wouldn't do if you were dead," Sherlock informed him. His voice was the same flat, bored tone that it always was, but there was something in it that told the Detective Inspector he wasn't lying. Obviously Sherlock had _some_ attachment to him, if not all that much, and it was actually a bit… comforting. Well, at least if the brilliant man ever turned criminal, he'd be in no danger.

"No, but I don't want to go through that again," he muttered, shaking his head slowly. Lestrade offered a twisted smile and stared at the visible cuts on his body, trying to fight off the memories each one brought. He'd barely spent 24 hours with Moriarty, and, after experiencing first-hand exactly what happened to men in that sort of situation, he couldn't help but pray he'd never repeat it. The pain wasn't even worth a million pounds.

"No, I wouldn't think so at all," Sherlock followed the Detective Inspector's gaze. It did feel a bit wrong to ask a man who'd just gone through hell about his ordeal, but it wasn't as if he had much time to spare. "Look, I have a few questions for you…"

"Ah, hell, _now_?"

"Yes, now," his tone was clearer, sharper now, all sense of empathy pushed to the back of his mind. This was when he needed to focus. "You're not the only one Moriarty's playing games with."

Lestrade looked shocked for a moment before he frowned. "_Who_? Who is it now?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock, surprisingly, quieted with the mention of his brother, "and John."

"Damn him," Lestrade spat angrily. "Mycroft… doesn't he have enough security to protect him from this?"

"Thought so. Obviously not. As for John, my own stupidity, shouldn't have left him alone." He reverted back to flat and bored, fighting the emotion from creeping into his voice. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be unfeeling. It wouldn't do to show his emotions. Not now, when he was playing another dangerous game - he'd already lost his best pieces.

"Sherlock, Moriarty would have gotten to him anyway. Probably've taken you out on the way. But it's another puzzle, isn't it? Solve it, then, and go get them."

"That's the problem."

"What is?"

"The next piece of the puzzle… is you. I don't know, but you're supposed to know _something._ Moriarty sent me a message. 'Recharge and Return,' he said. Recharge… we took that to mean sleep. Fine, that's done. Return, return to the crime scene, and I found your name written in black ink across the floorboards. That must mean something. And, just now, when you were sleeping, he sent me a message. To let you sleep." Sherlock shook his head. "I don't understand it, but you're the next piece."

"I don't have anything to tell you," Lestrade looked confused. "I did as the man said… really, I left you the note, and that's about…"

"Wait…" Sherlock frowned, eyes moving rapidly as the gears in his head began to turn again. "The _note._ The note, of course, it makes sense now… Return. Return to the crime scene, no, return to the clue that you left. But he led me to you anyway… he wants me to take my time… Oh, this is bad, this is not good but at the same time… I have to get that note, where did I put it?"

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, pulling out various pieces of paper. A note to get milk. Useless. The name of Molly's cat. Why did he even have that written down? Chemical formulas… not completely useless, but not useful in the situation. And finally, he pulled out the note, a wicked smile on his face. The smile vanished when Lestrade's face paled. "Sorry," Sherlock muttered, "guess you don't want to see this again."

"No, not really, no… But if it'll help find them, I'll live with it."

"Really?" Lestrade smiled in response and Sherlock nodded, scanning the note again. "Carl Powers. Shoes. Did he tell you what it means?"

"He didn't tell me much."

"Mm. Shoes. Original clue as to where to find you. That part was relatively easy. But how do I get the clue from this now? If the first clue was the shoes… then the second must be Carl Powers. But _what_? What does he expect me to connect it to?"

"I suppose you've already called Carl Power's home and asked if they've seen a dead body or two kidnapped men."

"Did that for your case, and they said no. No point doing it again, it's too populated for a torture or murder site. Now… Carl Powers. Carl Powers. The pool is possible, but that's where I went first. He's not going to repeat himself again… What else is linked to the boy?"

"Sherlock, are you sure you've got this right?"

"What do you mean?" His head snapped to look at the Detective Inspector.

"What if Carl Powers isn't the clue? You've exhausted everything linked to him. 'Help' could be a clue, simple as that."

"But why? Why help? What does it mean?"

"Obviously you've heard the word _help_ before."

"Yes, but… what is it linked to? How is this a clue? Where does he expect me to… Oh."

"Oh? What, Sherlock?"

"_Return._ Return to the note, but to get there, return to the crime scene, find your name, come to you. Find you, return to the note, realize the clue, and… Lestrade, I don't need to go anywhere. Help. Help! Don't you see? Where do people go if they need help?"

Lestrade's eyes widened for a moment.

"The hospital. Blimey, Sherlock, that's brilliant."

**A/N: Hmm. "Return" is getting confusing. Let's see if all this gets worse, shall we?**


	14. Return Again

**A/N: So, I've hit an amazing new idea for a fic and just thought I'd share that. What's wrong with a bit of advertising? ;) You should keep a look out for "Protecting The Innocent" when I start posting it... soonish. It'll probably come out before the sequel to this, if there is a sequel. Anyway, please enjoy chapter 14!**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"But _where_?"

He was running down the hall now, having left Lestrade's room moments ago. Nurses and doctors looked up from their clipboards as he flashed by, though very few recognized him. It was a wonder there was no security guard on his heels, considering the speed at which he was going and the room he'd just left. Running through a hospital was, of course, dangerous, but he'd just left the wounded Detective Inspector. He was almost disappointed when no one tried to stop him; after all, wasn't it a tiny bit suspicious that he was running from Lestrade's room?

Sherlock slid to a stop near the front desk, looking around wildly as he attempted to catch his breath. He stared off in different directions, down the separate hallways. Only one held his gaze for more than a few seconds. He frowned at it, silently wondering. Would this count as 'returning,' as well? Or was return out of the equation now? Frustrated, he grabbed the pager from his pocket and shook it as if it would give him answer. Unfortunately, it didn't seem willing to comply and remained blank. Once again he had to restrain himself from throwing it against the wall.

Well, so far he'd been right, hadn't he? It would be best to do as he'd always done: trust his instinct and intelligence. With that in mind, he set off down the hallway at a much slower pace. Sustaining an all-out sprint would have been near impossible; he might be fit, but definitely not _that_ fit. Instead, he allowed himself the luxury of a swift walk. If Moriarty was going to kill John and Mycroft, he'd get a message, or he'd be there himself. The latter was more probable - the more pain, the better. At least in the consulting criminal's mind, anyway.

Now, this was a place he knew well. The few nurses that looked up recognized him immediately, but none said anything. He flashed them a sarcastic-sweet smile and only kept walking, down the seemingly endless white hallway. It must have taken forever for him to finally reach the right door, and, when he did, he didn't even stop, just held a hand out and opened it. On the other side, a woman started, squeaking in shock. He winced at the sound.

"Hello, Molly," he greeted. "Mind if I have a look around?"

"Well, I have work to-"

"Did you get a new shirt? It's lovely," Sherlock offered her a smile, moving closer. He gently moved her lab coat out of the way to see the brand-new shirt. She blushed bright red and he let go, still smiling, staring at her expectantly. Flattery always worked with her, though he did get bored of it after a while.

"Yes… Well, I suppose-"

"Thanks, I won't take any time at all," he promised, moving away from her. Thank God that part was over, he could finally get to the details. Ice blue eyes scanned the room around him, looking for anything off, anything that might remotely hint to him of where to look next. But the place was, simply put, perfect. Pristine as it always had been, clean, nothing out of place (except perhaps the still-blushing woman standing by a very dead corpse). He frowned, moving on to the lab. Molly looked as if she might protest for a moment but only morphed her expression into a smile. It wasn't like she could stop him, anyway.

He ran his hands gently over the equipment set over the tables, keen eyes searching once more. Nothing really looked out of place here, either. He inwardly cursed himself. For once, his instincts and intelligence had directed him badly. Frustration setting in once again, he leaned against the wall, still staring around him. A few moments passed before Molly entered the lab, flashing him a small smile as she busied herself about with the equipment. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was because he was present, but he didn't say anything.

Sherlock watched her as she rifled through a small case of slides on the table. She frowned, pulling out something that hardly looked like bacteria or anything microscopic at all. He leaned forward for a better look but she turned, hiding it from his view. She carefully laid the slide on the desk, puzzling over it for a moment, before cautiously saying, "Sherlock, come have a look at this."

So he hadn't been completely wrong, had he? The man was around the desk in a flash, staring intently at the slide. On it was a piece of paper, taped down rather than anything else. He scoffed at it. Leave it to Moriarty to wrongly fake a slide. Still, he was glad there was _something_ here. A small, ripped piece of paper. On it, written in black ink, was the word '_wrong._'

"Wrong?" he stared at it incredulously, and this time actually gave into temptation, grabbing the paper right off the slide and tearing it in half. The satisfaction of watching it fall back onto the table was definitely worth it. Molly looked shocked, but he ignored her and began to pace back and forth. "Wrong… Wrong… _Wrong_! What kind of game is he playing? If not here, where?"

Just then, the pager beeped, and he wrenched it from his pocket with all the savagery of a starving carnivore. 'Return,' it read, the message playing again. He gritted his teeth. Return, again! Return to this, return to that. He'd returned to absolutely everything he could possibly think of, and, if there was even the slightest chance that Moriarty wanted the damn pager back, how the hell was he supposed to comply with that? Sherlock stalked angrily out of the room and down the hall, leaving the still-shocked Molly behind.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong. What am I _missing_?" It might have been one of the first times that Sherlock truly related to the frustration of Scotland Yard, because he couldn't help but remember himself sending the same message so many times. Was this the point? To frustrate him with a bit of his own medicine? Well, it was definitely working.

"Return. Return to what? I returned to the flat… returned to the note… went to Lestrade… left to go to Molly… and, now what? Why did he send it again? Return to _what_?" Sherlock stopped for a split second, eyes widening. His voice quieted into a whisper. "Oh, that's brilliant. Return… again. Retrace my steps from the lab back to… back to Lestrade."

His own rant was cut short by a sudden scream across the hallway. He frowned, listening to the yell, before his heart sunk. The woman was standing outside of Lestrade's room, and screaming, "He's arresting! Get Dr. West!"

"Dr. West," the intercom echoed, "Room 601, emergency. Patient is going into cardiac arrest. Repeat, Dr. West, room 601, cardiac arrest."

_Return._

It made sense now.

He was supposed to return to Lestrade's room. Supposed to somehow find a new clue there.

But what if the man died before he had the chance?

For the thousandth time in 24 hours, Sherlock hoped Lestrade would live.

If not for himself, but for the world.

**A/N: Well... I think it's safe to say you didn't expect THAT.**


	15. It's In The Name

**A/N: Chapter 15. :) Yay. Thanks again to anyone who reviews, favorites and/or alerts this story! I don't have much to say today... just that I'm overly tired and hungry and should probably go eat or sleep instead of posting this... But whatever. Do enjoy.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"What do you _want_?"

His face was cracked and bleeding, lips parched and hair in a complete disarray, but he was still fighting. Rope burn marked his wrists, cuts etched across his arms, blood poured from a wound on his leg. He'd long lost feeling in left foot (thank God), and he could feel the screaming pain in his right foot all _too_ well, but he was still fighting. The light had not yet left his eyes, the soldier's instinct and his own pride shining through. He would not surrender, not submit, no matter what was inflicted.

To the left of him, however, was a completely different scene. The other man, bound to a chair, was no longer conscious. He'd nearly reached braking point before everything had gone black, and John had been there to see it all. That must have been the worst part of the whole ordeal: not his own pain, but seeing and hearing another man's pain. And, though they hadn't known each other long, it all seemed wrong. He'd never thought that it would be so easy to break him, to tear him apart.

A small tear slipped down his face. He refused to allow any others, for fear that his captors would see it. The tear, however, was not for himself; it was panic and worry for the man not present. The one he'd spent the last few months protecting, running the streets and solving crimes with. This was who he was worried for, above all. His own safety didn't matter until he knew the other man was safe. Hero's - soldier's - honour, perhaps, but he'd grown so attached…

He wrenched his gaze from the man next to him to his captors, one of which was fiddling with a phone. A rush of hatred hit him. This - this man, if he could even be called that - had caused all this. If he could free himself, there would be no stopping the pain he'd inflict on his captor. This one specifically. Because, above all, he knew this one best.

Moriarty.

As he watched, Moriarty turned towards him, a bit of a twisted smile on his face. It made him nauseous - so like Sherlock, and yet so different. Slowly, the consulting criminal advanced, holding the phone out in front of him and shaking it lightly, as if it was a lifeline of some sort. As if he knew John would give anything for a phone right now. But, instead of giving it to him, Moriarty simply pressed a button (dial, John presumed) and held it to John's ear.

"When Sherlock answers, you say _only_ what you are told, and nothing more." His voice, sickeningly cheery, taunted him.

John pulled at his bonds with no avail. "And what if I don't?"

"Then poor Mycroft Holmes won't last much longer, will he?"

His eyes widened. He would have been fine with his own pain, but he couldn't let that happen. Not just because of how close to the edge he knew Mycroft was, but because of… Sherlock. He couldn't be responsible for the death of his brother! It just wouldn't be right.

Moriarty's laugh told him that he knew quite well what he was doing.

* * *

Sherlock leaned casually against the wall, watching the scene unfold in front of him. He pushed away the uneasiness as the doctors and nurses screamed muted things at one another, only slightly wishing that he could actually be in the room instead of just the hallway. If only he'd had John. John was a doctor, he'd find some way to get information. A pang of guilt hit him but he pushed it away as well, refusing to break down in a hospital hallway.

Just then, his phone rang. He frowned, reaching for it, and tentatively pressed it to his ear, carefully levelling his voice. "Sherlock Holmes. Hello?"

"Sherlock?" His heart must have stopped at the voice. It was distinctly familiar, so distinct that he could almost see the man in front of him, but, at the same time, there was something wrong. No pride seemed to be left in that voice. It was raspy. He was parched, Sherlock realized. Probably hadn't been given water since Moriarty had taken him. This time, the detective couldn't stop a shudder from racing through him.

"John? John, are you alright?" A stupid question, but he didn't know exactly _what_ to say. He knew better than to ask the location. It was very likely that John wasn't really the one talking anyway, just using Moriarty's words. As if to prove his point, the phone caught a hiss in the background, the voice distinctly Moriarty's. "Beg him," it hissed, "beg him to save you."

"Help me, help me _please_," John's voice pleaded with him. Sherlock bit his lip to stop the emotions. He knew it wasn't the soldier and the doctor he knew talking. No matter what, he was positive that John could never, _ever_, be reduced to begging like this.

"I'm trying," he whispered in response. "But I don't know where to go next…"

Admitting weakness was perhaps not the best choice, but there was some intelligence behind his words. If Moriarty thought Sherlock had truly hit his end, then he'd likely be willing to provide a clue. Contrary to what he'd expected however, John simply said, "I can't help you. He won't let me."

"John…" he started, frowning sadly.

And just then, it happened. A noise on the other line, sounding quite like someone striking something. And the frantic scream of, "Sherlock! The next clue! It's in the name!"

"You bastard!" Another voice flooded the line, and another distinct sound of something striking something else sounded. "I told you _not _to do that!"

Just as he thought he'd lost hope, that there would be no more clues, the voice sounded again, more hoarse this time. "Sherlock! The name… _Holmes!_"

And the line went dead, just like that.

The phone fell to the floor and Sherlock slid with it, hitting the ground with a thump.

"Holmes," he whispered. "Holmes."

* * *

Blood ran from his mouth and his forehead, dripping into his eyes and down onto the few ragged pieces of clothes that he still had. Around him, curses were exchanged and something was thrown - meant to hit him, he guessed by the air that rushed by his ear. The pain was becoming unbearable, but it was worth it.

Holmes. He'd managed to give Holmes the final clue, the clue that Sherlock was supposed to find himself. And he couldn't be prouder of the fact.

Mycroft might suffer in the end, and he might as well, but at least Sherlock knew, now.

He didn't know that his words were in sync with Sherlock's, nor that the detective, kilometres away, had dropped the phone to the floor. But nevertheless, he blinked blood out of his eyes and whispered, "Holmes."


	16. You're Finished Here

**A/N: Chapter 16 for you all. :D Thanks to everyone reviewing, favoriting, and alerting this story! As per usual I have nothing much to say... how exciting is that? Maybe it's just the exhaustion talking. If I actually drank coffee, that might help right now. But anyway, please enjoy this chapter!**

**I don't own Sherlock. Sad, isn't it?**

Sherlock was still sitting on the floor, staring at nothing, when the nurses and doctors exited Lestrade's room. In fact, he barely noticed it happened at all. He didn't even bother to look up until a pair of white shoes stopped right in the space he was staring at. Slightly confused, he raised his gaze to find a sadly smiling Molly Hooper staring down at him. Despair coursed through him. Surely she hadn't seen him like this, so lost and defeated, sitting on the ground in a hospital? Didn't she belong in the morgue? He almost laughed at that thought - _that_ sounded morbid.

"I came to check on Lestrade," she whispered, leaving out the _and you_ that was implied by the statement. "He's alive, Sherlock, he's fine. They don't know what caused it yet… someone said something about a toxin, but it's not confirmed. It's alright, Sherlock, you can get off the floor. He's going to live."

She held her hand out to him to illustrate her point, but he didn't take it. Instead, he lifted himself to his own feet, staring at her. But there was nothing left of the fire that normally burned in his eyes. He only nodded slowly at her, giving a quick "thank you" before returning to his thoughts. She, however, didn't seem to get the hint and persisted.

"Come on, I have something at the morgue that might interest you." Normally he'd accept the offer on the spot, but there were far more important things going on at that moment. Molly seemed to understand when he didn't leap at the chance and changed her tactics right away. "Alright… What's… what's wrong?"

She was afraid of the answer, he noticed instantly. Her voice was relatively steady for a girl like her, but her eyes gave her away. Still, it might help to talk to something. Normally he'd be talking to John, or himself, but neither would be acceptable right now. Especially since John was God-knows-where and he was in a very public place.

"Lestrade's been kidnapped by Moriarty, but you know that. We found him… yesterday. Two days ago. I don't know anymore," the defeat in his voice shocked her. "But it's part of another game. He's got John, Molly. John and Mycroft. And the only clue is useless."

"The clue?" she urged him on, her voice shaking a bit. _John_ was gone? She'd never particularly liked Mycroft, considering how he and Sherlock were always at odds on the few times that she'd seen him. But John was different. He wasn't alluring in the way Sherlock was, but he was kind and gentle. He talked to her when Sherlock wouldn't, and she considered him a friend.

"Holmes."

"Holmes? Sherlock, that's your last name," she blushed red before hurrying to correct herself (though, for once he didn't seem to notice). "Sorry, you know that. What else is it supposed to mean, though? Is it a play on words? Or are you supposed to think of something related to your family?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I was supposed to get the last clue from Lestrade… like he'd know or could tell me. But I've no idea. I'm not the only Holmes around, either."

She nodded slowly, and, just on time, a small beep came from his pocket. With less energy than before, Sherlock grabbed it and read through the message quickly. At the odd look on Molly's face, he began to read it aloud for her, "Good boy, you've gotten the next clue. Too bad your precious doctor isn't doing so good. Stupid soldier, too brave for his own heart. It might be a while before he wakes, but, until then, will you come out to play again, Sherlock? Or are you finished? Go Holmes."

"Go Holmes?" he repeated, frowning. The message seemed to reignite the fire that had driven him before, because his eyes began to spark again and the gears in his mind began to turn. "That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe he's cheering you on?" Molly offered with a slight smile. She instantly knew it was the wrong answer, because Sherlock didn't seem amused at all.

"No, not at all. That's barely even possible, let alone plausible," he muttered. His eyes began moving rapidly as they always did when he was thinking. "Go Holmes. But what does it mean? Holmes… obviously me, or related to. It doesn't make sense to be anything else. Go. Go what? Go where?"

Molly, slightly disappointed by Sherlock's sudden attitude, forced a smile and turned on her heel. She looked over her shoulder at him, muttering a quiet "I'm going to check on him" before crossing the hallway into Lestrade's room.

The pager beeped again in his hand and he whipped it out, quickly reading the words that scrolled across the screen. 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but Holmes will never hurt me.' He rolled his eyes at it. This was definitely not a clue, only meant to distract him. Sherlock stuffed it back in his pocket. If he had the chance, he would _definitely_ hurt Moriarty. There wasn't any 'never' involved at all.

"Sherlock?" A timid voice called to him. He looked up to see Molly leaving Lestrade's room. There was something in her hand, something that hadn't been there before. He walked forward to meet her, realizing quickly that she was holding a note. Penned in red ink this time. It was meant to remind him of blood, he realized, of Lestrade's and John's and Mycroft's blood. This must have been the first time in his life that the thought of blood had ever made him nauseous.

"Go Holmes, Holmes," he read, eyes widening. "You're finished here."

A moment's pause, and then a smirk broke across his face.

"Of _course._ Go _home_. Not my home… Holmes' home; Mycroft's… Brilliant!"

And with that he was off, leaving a very confused Molly behind him.


	17. Start The Clock

**A/N: I'm going to apologize now instead of later because, let's face it, my knowledge of Britain's geography and cities is seriously limited. So, if I don't give you a specific address or get something wrong... Now you know why. As much as I would love to be in Britain and learn everything there is to know about it, I happen to be in an entirely different continent and country (Canada) and so you will likely never see a specific address. Anyway, we're almost to the end of the story! :'O Five more chapters to go... what can happen in five chapters, I wonder? ;)**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"He'll be here soon, you know," he spat, blood flying from his mouth onto the dusty ground. He could barely see through the blood that was dripping into his eyes, but he couldn't stop fighting. He couldn't give up. "He won't let you do this."

"He doesn't have a choice," a singsong voice grinned back at him. "Boys, move them. To the other chamber, please. It's almost time for our grand finale. Mr. Holmes has finally come out to play."

He couldn't help the fear that gripped his heart. John pulled against his bonds as the men drew nearer to him. He cast a desperate look at Mycroft, but the man was still unconscious, oblivious to the world. Sharp knives cut through the bonds on his legs and rough hands pulled him up, but his legs simply refused to support him. He fell to the ground, dust clouding around his face. No matter how much he kicked, he could not get back on his feet, only struggled aimlessly.

"Nice, good job, right where we wanted you," the rough voice of one of his captors called at him. _Eyebrow_, he remembered. He'd nicknamed this one Eyebrow for the ugly unibrow that stretched across his forehead. In his panicked state, John began to giggle in hysteria, still kicking madly. At least until a foot planted itself in his back and he was forced to immobilize himself.

Hands, even rougher now, pulled him off the ground and shoved something - a burlap bag, he guessed - over his head, effectively cutting off his vision even more so. His legs wobbled underneath him, but the hands held him up and dragged him roughly along. John screwed his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry out in pain. _No._ He couldn't sink that low.

Still, as a mocking laugh reached his ears, he was powerless to stop it.

John Watson was beginning to break.

* * *

He took off down the hall, racing past the confused nurses and doctors. This time, a few _did_ yell at him, but he ignored each and every one of them. This was far more important than rules and security. After all, he'd figured it out. Holmes. How quaint, how brilliant. Moriarty would have known that he would skip over the possibility of 'home.' He'd never really considered himself to have much of a permanent home, before Baker Street. And that place had suddenly became so home to him that he may as well be attached to everything from the flooring to the paint.

Then again, he knew it wasn't just that that made the place home. It was the presence of a friend, someone he needed but never really had before. It was John that helped make the place home. Without John, he didn't really consider it a home at all, let alone a home for Holmes.

Luck didn't seem to be on Sherlock's side that day, because, just as he was barely a foot from the door, a huge figure stepped in his way. He smashed into it, sending it and himself sprawling. The adrenaline took away most of the pain and he only looked annoyed for a moment. The figure stood up, brushing itself off angrily before it grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up off the floor.

"What are you doing?" it demanded angrily. Sherlock looked startled before he actually took a good look at the figure. His heart sunk. He really should have expected security to have impeccable timing.

"Getting out of here, obviously," he retorted, shrugging as if he hadn't been doing anything wrong at all. "I really do have somewhere to be, so I'd appreciate if you'd put me down."

"I don't like the way you're talking," the man hissed back, tightening his grip. Sherlock rolled his eyes, biting back an irritated retort. "We have reports of you running through hallways. Fine, I can handle that. You might be jeopardizing safety, but no one said a man couldn't have fun once and a while."

"Then why aren't you letting me go?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because I have other reports. Reports that say you were seen fleeing from room 601. If I'm not mistaken, that's where the torture victim is being held."

"DI Lestrade, yes. Now what's this got to do with me?"

"They suspect it was a poison. Shouldn't I find it… _suspicious_ that you were running away from the room? Did you just kill the man?"

Sherlock couldn't help himself. The adrenaline mixed with the nagging panic at the back of his mind and the situation itself caused him to laugh uncontrollably. The security guard looked so confused that he loosened his grip, the stern look on his face slipping for a moment. Unfortunately, he regained his composure quickly and tightened his grip on Sherlock's collar again. "You think it's funny?"

Maybe luck really had been on his side that day, because a very irritated, female voice called out "Let him go, Daniel!"

"And why should I do that?" Daniel answered, still staring at Sherlock. "He could be linked to DI Lestrade's cardiac arrest."

"Doubtful, since he was with me," the voice answered and Sherlock grinned slowly. Was it really Molly coming to his rescue? "Put him down, Daniel. His best friend is somewhere in the country getting tortured and so is his brother. Let the damn man go so he can go _save them_."

That must have been the first time in his life that Daniel was well and truly shocked. Without realizing, he let go of the detective and it took him far too long to realize Sherlock had gone.

* * *

"Set him there," an annoyed voice commanded. John was pushed roughly into something - he guessed a chair - and bit his lip to keep the sounds of pain escaping. Even a soldier had a breaking point, and the doctor part of him knew he was reaching it. Each breath was laboured and painful. He had taken to simply shutting his eyes and willing out the world in the time that it had taken to get… wherever they were.

He was still aware of the blood that had dried on his face, but ignored it. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered, nothing at all. At this point, he wasn't even sure that he could stay loyal to Sherlock. One more stab, one more cut, one more burn… and he wasn't sure he could hold on anymore.

"God, Sherlock, get here," he tried to whisper, but his voice failed him. Even tears didn't come now. He needed water, so badly…

"Start the clock," Moriarty's voice echoed through the room, "and take your positions."

"How long, sir?" another voice - Eyebrow, he guessed - asked cautiously.

"An hour and a half. Give him just over an hour to get here, and we'll give him time to decide how to proceed."

"That won't leave him much more than five minutes, sir," the puzzled voice asked.

Moriarty cackled. "I know."

**A/N: Dun dun dun dun...**


	18. The Holmes Brothers' Only Home

**A/N: Once again, thanks to everyone who reads, reviews, favorites, and alerts this story. I love you all. :) And, for curiosity's sake, I have a question: does anyone actually pay attention to what the chapters are named? Hmm... Anyway, chapter 18 for you all! Please enjoy.**

**I don't own Sherlock. Really, I'd like to, but no one seems to be willing to sell it to me.**

He couldn't get there fast enough.

Since leaving the security guard behind, Sherlock had hailed the first cab he'd seen. But now, sitting in the taxi, he was beginning to feel the anxiousness and uneasiness again, the painful reminders of exactly what was at stake here. He could barely resist the urge to scream at the cabbie. The man seemed to be taking his time, maybe even taking the long route, and that just wouldn't do in the situation. He needed to get where he was going, and _fast_.

There was one place in England not many people really knew of. Mycroft was part of the British government, yes, and much of him was known - but not all. A small bit of land, set off away from cities, was his only sanctuary. In the past, when Sherlock had been younger and a confused man mixed up in drugs, the place was often his own sanctuary as well. It was one of the few places without cameras, without crime - it seemed completely free of the outside world. He remembered his brother once referring to it as 'the Holmes brothers' only home,' and, until Baker Street, it truly had been. He kicked himself for not thinking of that earlier.

"Oh for God's sake," he muttered after a while of staring out the window. Sherlock's intense gaze switched to the cabbie, who was well and truly pretending to be focussed on the road. Rolling his eyes, he raised his voice and demanded, "Why are you taking so long?"

"Sir, I'm only taking you where you told me to go," the voice answered. Sherlock rolled his eyes. If this man was an actor at all, he was a horrible one. Everything was wrong; the direction he looked, the white of his knuckles on the steering wheel, the note of laughter in his fake confused voice.

"Don't kid me. Need I tell you how important this is?" The taxi driver shook his head _no_, but he didn't even acknowledge this and kept going. "My brother is being held hostage. My best friend, too. They could die at any moment. And guess what?" Anger drove him on as he pressed his hand to the side of the man's face, finger and thumb making the age-old sign of a gun. "If they die, I will blame you for it."

The man gulped, eyes wide, and nodded quickly. Sherlock withdrew his hand, satisfied, and growled, "Speed up. Now. No delays."

The rest of the ride went considerably faster, but it didn't mean much. His eyes were constantly on the clock, watching it as if it was his lifeline to the rest of the world. Something in his mind told him that he needed to go faster, the taxi could never go fast enough but even then it had to go faster. He had to bite his lip to stop himself yelling at the cabbie, despite the fact that the man was already speeding.

It must have taken almost an hour and a half to drive there. He was feeling uneasy when he left the cab. Sherlock stopped for a moment, drew a deep breath and forced himself to focus. Whatever he saw - whatever he was going to see - he needed to focus, he needed his mind in the right frame. After a moment he whipped around, threw some notes at the cabbie and very quietly growled, "Stay here, I might need you."

And with that he was off, turning on his heel and striding across the grounds he remembered so well. It all seemed to taunt him, really. He could see the good memories reflected on everything from the grass to the trees, memories that, from now on, would be covered by horrible ones. Sherlock shuddered. He'd rather have the image of himself on a good day, sitting high up on a tree reading while Mycroft was on the ground doing the same thing - it must have been one of the only times they got along well - than a memory of the blood he was sure would be greeted with when he entered the house. Oh, God, the _house_.

He was actually afraid of what he might see there. The pristine tables and chairs, wooden and beautifully crafted, that he had spent so much time at. Even the flooring was likely to be stained with blood. But no, no, he couldn't think about this. He _couldn't_ afford to think of that. The only way to survive was to be unattached, to pretend it didn't existed.

But could he manage that?

First of all, he was exhausted. It must have been a day of firsts for everybody and everything, because he couldn't ever remember being this physically or emotionally exhausted during a case. He couldn't ever remember being emotionally exhausted at _all_. But at least his mind worked. He was thankful for that. As long as the gears kept turning, he could keep himself moving because he had to.

Each step seemed like a century until he finally reached the front door, where he hesitated to knock. There was no point, really, was there? He doubted the door was locked at all - and, laying his hand on the doorknob and turning it, he discovered that to be true. A small smirk crept on his face. Well, at least he was in his own element while Moriarty was out of his.

_Or is he?_ A voice nagged at the back of his mind. _Who says he hasn't been walking around these grounds for days, familiarizing himself with everything so he can catch you by surprise? All you remember are good memories of the days that you were actually clear-headed. Don't be stupid, Sherlock, you're almost completely out of your element too. This might have been home once, but it's not anymore._

"Note to self," he whispered, "reconcile with Mycroft and come back here. With… with John."

Sherlock allowed himself one more second to draw a deep breath before entering. He closed the door quietly behind him, feeling all of a sudden very shut in. He'd never been particularly claustrophobic, but even the atmosphere in the room was overwhelming. Uneasiness met him once again as he glanced around the room. The front room, it seemed was normal. He almost smiled, actually.

A memory hit him despite himself. Oh well, he may as well enjoy it in the few moments he had. One of his first days ever being clear-headed, standing here with Mycroft. He could remember laughing - actually _laughing_ - with his brother about something neither of them really understood. It must have been one of the last times he'd ever enjoyed anything with his brother.

_And it might just be the last,_ the voice reminded him, snapping him back into reality. Wide-eyed, Sherlock looked from left to right, trying to determine which direction to go. Left, towards the kitchen? Right, towards the living room? Or straight, towards his old bedroom?

He couldn't help but stare down the straight path, swallowing slowly. Of course. Moriarty would pick one of the places that meant the most to him - or used to mean so much to him, anyway. His sanctuary. Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself another deep breath (he'd promised himself that the last would truly be the last, but promises never stuck anyway) and then, with the pride and step of a soldier, he marched down the hallway.

A white door greeted him. _His_ white door. Pausing a second, Sherlock splayed his hands out on the ornately carved white wood. And then, ever-so-gently, he pushed it open.

The sight in front of him nearly took his breath away.

It was red on red and black on black, and, amongst it all, a clock.

Its blinding white numbers were counting down.

Five minutes, six seconds… Five minutes, four seconds...


	19. What If I Can't?

**A/N: Well, I think we all can agree on one thing: my math is terrible. It's a wonder I passed grade one considering my counting in the last chapter... but I don't feel like correcting it because it entertains me. If you didn't notice, it goes from "five minutes, six seconds" to "five minutes, four seconds". Somewhere in their we lost "five minutes, five seconds". Oops. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter! :) Chapter 19... only 3 more chapters to go. What could happen in 3 chapters? Who will die? Who will live? And will I ever learn to count? Find out soonish! (I feel like a rambling commercial!)**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

Blood.

Oh God, the blood. It was almost as bad as the clock. It knocked the air out of him completely and he was powerless to stop it. The two men in front of him were nearly unrecognizable. Sherlock lost his composure completely then, just staring, shocked. He didn't even bother to fight the small tear that worked its way down his face. How could this have happened? How could he have _let_ this happen? He was supposed to protect them, keep them safe, keep them close… he was supposed to poke fun at Mycroft and chase criminals with John.

He wasn't supposed to rescue them. He wasn't supposed to see them like this, their eyes clouded with blood and pain and something he couldn't identify. He half expected them to cry out at the sight of him, but they didn't even move, barely seeing him at all. His brother's eyes were the worst of all. John… John was still fighting, if only barely, but Mycroft was a broken man. He could see it so easily.

"Damnit, Moriarty!" he screamed, his voice cracking in the middle.

Laughter echoed throughout the room and he twisted and turned to see it but found nothing. A speaker, set in the wall, magnified the voice, he realized. Moriarty wasn't even here, in the room. It frustrated him. It was completely unacceptable, Sherlock thought angrily. This wasn't fair at all. He felt like a two-year-old in a tantrum, staring as his two favourite friends moved away. It just wasn't _right._

And that's when he noticed it.

Just as he moved forward to help them, he realized: one on John's head, one on Mycroft's - red beams. Laser pointers, he thought for a moment before it registered. _Sniper rifles. _He fought a flashback from the pool, fought to keep in the present. But panic and fear was coming over him now, more than he'd ever experienced it before. He didn't even try to hide it as he screamed, "Moriarty! What do you _want_?"

"To play," a voice answered, mocking him. "Sherlock, you've got five minutes, don't you see? Well, about four now. I've got a new little game for you. A choice actually.

"There's two men in front of you. Both of whom mean a lot to you, don't they? I mean, I can't promise they'll be the same, but they should still be interesting. Pick one."

"What?" he screamed back, running a hand over his face. It came back wet. He hadn't even realized he'd been sweating as he stared between them in panic. _No no no no_, the voice in his mind was now screaming. _No no no save them save them Sherlock_.

"But what if I can't?" he whispered.

For once in his life, he didn't know what to do. He had absolutely no idea at all. Who meant more to him? Could he really sacrifice one to save the other? His broken brother for his only friend? His only friend for his broken brother? The choice was horrible.

How could Moriarty do this? How could he know exactly how to get to him, how to take the mask that Sherlock had moulded for himself and rip it apart in seconds? Was it really that obvious? That he cared so much, that he actually _cared_? In barely three days, he'd gone from the intelligent, unfeeling genius to… to this. Crying and screaming at a monitor that didn't care, staring back and forth between his best friend and "archenemy," trying to decide who was worth more.

It had been a cruel game. The entire thing, from start to finish. Kidnapping and torturing Lestrade. Taunting him with the pager, sending him vague clues. Playing with Donovan and Anderson so they unknowingly only helped the puzzle. And then there was Carl Powers. The shoes. And Return. Recharge and return. Sending him back to things, over and over again, until he finally got it. Return to the crime scene, return to Lestrade, return to your lab, return to Lestrade again. He'd run in an entire circle just to amuse Moriarty. And, now that he thought about it, it wouldn't have mattered either way.

It would have ended like this anyway.

He looked up at the clock, shocked to see not even a full minute had passed. The clock's numbers blared at him, screamed at him, yelled at him that he had only four minutes and twenty-nine seconds and that he'd better get a move on if he actually cared about the men in front of him.

But it was so _hard._ How did he pick between two people like that?

Watson. The man had only barely become a huge part of his life and had changed him in the months that they knew each other. Watson was reliable, helpful, and actually human. He'd never really thought much of ordinary people before, but Watson wasn't ordinary at all. Not in a normal sense. He was ordinary, sure, but at the same time…

And Mycroft. He'd never admit it, but he owed so much to his brother. The times he'd cleared his names for the drug charges, and this place. He had to thank his brother for the fond memories of the little country house. Everything from laughing in the front room to reading high up in the trees or experimenting with various chemicals that Mycroft so willingly brought him. He couldn't help but wonder when it all had gone wrong.

So he stared between the two, juggling his thoughts. Mycroft or John? Mycroft was still staring at the floor, but John seemed somewhat conscious of his surroundings because he raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's, silently screaming for help. Sherlock bit back a yell of his own. _I can't help you!_ He screamed in his mind. _I don't know who to pick!_

"I'll give you another choice, Sherlock," a cruel voice boomed throughout the room. He froze at the sound of it. "You can die for them."

And suddenly it didn't seem so hard to pick.


	20. Kill Me

**A/N: *cough* If you wanted to kill me yesterday for leaving it where it was... *cough* Anyway, chapter 20 for you all. :) Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, alerted, and favorited so far! Please enjoy this chapter, but don't die of suspense or whatever. That would be depressing.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"Sherlock, _no_!"

Wherever he got the strength from, John wasn't sure, but suddenly he was staring straight at the man in question. His voice didn't quite come out in the heroic voice he'd hoped it would - rather, it was even drier and raspier than it had been before - but Sherlock seemed to have heard. Because he looked back, ice blue eyes locking on his. And yet he could see it, written all over his face. There was no way Sherlock could say no.

In that moment, John Watson truly realized exactly what he meant to the detective. He saw the renegade tears on Sherlock's face and realized: the man still had a heart. No matter what he said, no matter how much he claimed he never had one to begin with, it was _there._ And, oh God, he felt so guilty knowing that Sherlock cared enough about him and Mycroft to do this.

"No, Sherlock, no," he said again, but his voice came out a whisper. If he'd had the strength to cry, he would have burst into tears just then.

* * *

"Kill me!" Sherlock screamed at the voice. He forced himself to stand tall, to look even a bit like the man he'd always been. He shut his eyes for a moment, breathing deep, and, when they flew open, his mind was set. There was no going back now. "Kill me, Moriarty, if that's what you want. But they walk free. And… and you kill me yourself."

"Oooh, what a disappointment!" the singsong voice rang throughout the room, taunting him. Moriarty grinned a little bit as he stepped into the room, a handgun held tightly in his hand. He smirked upon seeing Sherlock in such a state and raised the gun, first aiming it at Mycroft (quite entertaining, it was, to see the look on Sherlock's face) and then at John (the same look seemed to magnify) but when he aimed it at the detective himself, there was no emotion. Sherlock's face wiped clean. Moriarty frowned. This wouldn't do at all. He wanted the detective to suffer and his pets to suffer just as much.

"Very clever, my little detective," Moriarty purred, running a hand through Mycroft's hair. He was delighted to see Sherlock wince and feel Mycroft try to draw away from him, crying out quietly as he did so. "You figured it out. You did good. Very clever, finding Lestrade the way you did. But, Sherlock, dear, why do you never keep track of your pets? Tsk, tsk, poor little John never saw it coming. And, well, Mycroft was with me from the start. Not willingly, of course, but I've had my eye on him for a while!"

The way his voice rose into an almost gleeful cheer at the end bugged Sherlock. He shifted from foot to foot, eyes flicking from Moriarty to the clock and back again. His mind was working, working fast, trying to formulate a plan, but nothing seemed clear. Too many 'if's. Not enough 'for sure's. Still, he had to do something. Despite the fear and the panic and the rebel tears that managed to escape, he had to do _something._ Who said that, the moment he died, John and Mycroft wouldn't be killed as well?

"I want the snipers removed," Sherlock said slowly, fighting to keep his voice steady. He locked eyes with a smirking Moriarty. "If you're going to kill me, kill _me_. Let them go."

"Oh, so loyal. Too loyal, maybe. Just like your little pets," even Moriarty's suit seemed to smirk at him. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, focussed more on the gun than the man. If… if he could do this, then who was to say he couldn't escape?

_Too many 'if's,_ the voice screamed in his mind again. _Think, Sherlock, think. You can do this. The gun is angled at approximately 90 degrees from his body. If he moves it down a few degrees, provided he gets close enough to you… but he won't. What can you do? Think, think. At least get John and Mycroft out alive._

"I want them out alive," he growled, voice finally steady. His heart still thumped wildly and the panic remained but his mind was fabulously clear, if only for a few seconds. He could… he might be able to get himself out of this.

_But how can you?_ The doubtful part of his mind asked him. _You're in no shape for combat, Sherlock. Look at you. Exhausted._

_I've been exhausted before,_ he thought back fiercely.

"Maybe, maybe not," Moriarty ran a hand through John's hair this time. He walked a few paces forward, close to Sherlock but perhaps not as close as the detective might have liked. "Down on the ground. On your knees."

"_Why?_" he hissed back. "What tells me you won't kill them as soon as I leave?"

"Nice to see you back, my detective." The consulting criminal sneered. "Thought I'd lost you for a moment, you actually looked… panicked. Sad. Depressed. But we can't have that, can we, Sherlock? Oh, no, no, no. If news of _this_ side of you got out, you'd lose everything. Now, don't make me ask again. Down. On. The. Ground. _Now._"

Biting back a retort, Sherlock allowed his knees to buckle, falling heavily to the ground. He started up at Moriarty through unwashed, raven curls. They were plastered to his head, he noted. He was still sweating. Adrenaline was pushing away the panic, his mind taking over the rest of his body and emotions, but why was he still sweating? Was it hot in there?

_You're worried,_ the voice told him. _You're not stupid, Sherlock, you've learned about this before. It is natural for a human to sweat if they're in a stressful situation._

"Happy?" he growled.

"Very," Moriarty grinned, stepping forward. He looked down at the detective again, standing only centimetres away from him, and slowly lowered the gun until it pressed into Sherlock's temple. With a grin still on his face, he whispered, "_Bang._"

**A/N: Dun dun dun dun. Will our dear Sherlock survive? Or will he die to save two of the people who matter most to him? Find out tomorrow! :D**


	21. I Die, They Die, You Die

**A/N: Well. Here's the fun part. Let's see what happens now, shall we? ;) Will our dear Sherlock escape? Read on and find out... in any case, please enjoy this chapter. My thanks to every person who has faithfully read, reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story!**

**I don't own Sherlock. Do you? **

It was a dangerous plan. Blood pounded in his ears as he stared up at Moriarty, debating if it was well and truly worth it. Balance probability suggested this plan wouldn't work - he'd die, just as he was intended to, and his brothers would die with him. _Brothers?_ he wondered absently. Since when did he refer to John as a brother?

_It's not important_, he reminded himself and focussed back on Moriarty, allowing himself his trademark smirk. Moriarty frowned, well and truly staring at him in attempt to analyze, but Sherlock didn't fear the gaze. Instead, he stared readily back at it, the smirk playing on his face, the intensity slowly returning to his eyes. His mind still screamed at him, screamed at him to move and to do something and to save the people he cared for, but he forced himself to take his time. The clock on the wall screamed three minutes. _No no no_, he told himself, _wait._

Moriarty finally just shook his head and focussed back on the gun, pressing it harder into the detective's skull. Sherlock drew a deep breath. His timing would have to be perfect. Moriarty's hand gripped the gun tighter, and he was vaguely aware of John's raspy voice yelling something at him, but Sherlock forced all of it away. He only waited, watched, and focussed as Moriarty slowly squeezed the trigger.

And then he moved. Fast as light, he moved his feet, swinging them out from under him. They smashed into Moriarty's legs, toppling the other man just as the gun went off. It flew across the room, landing a few feet away from Sherlock's hands. Despite the stinging now in his legs, he scrambled to grab it, hands reaching eagerly for the metal that may just save his life. Unfortunately, just as he pointed it at the consulting criminal, the tables seemed to turn.

From his pocket, Moriarty pulled another gun, smaller but equally powerful. The pair stared at each other, daring the other to shoot. Seconds passed before Sherlock, breathing slowly as he went, growled, "Call the snipers off and untie John and Mycroft. Then I'll let you go."

"Not a chance, Holmes," Moriarty growled in response. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he twitched his hand on the trigger. "I die, they die, you die. It's all quite simple."

"Not to me," Sherlock hissed back. He took his gaze off Moriarty for a moment to look at the two men whose lives could be taken at any moment. If he shot now… things could all go to hell. But there was a part of him, the part screaming in panic, that told him to do it anyway. Because there was a small chance…

He drew a deep breath and aimed at Moriarty. Their eyes remained locked, but the situation was obvious this time. Sherlock stared straight into the man's eyes and slowly, slowly pulled the trigger.

The gunshot rang through the room, deafening him for a moment. He stumbled backwards, falling on the ground. A sharp pain erupted on his shoulder, and he turned to stare at it, appalled. So this was it. Moriarty had missed. He breathed a sigh of relief, smiling for a moment before the smile vanished completely. If Moriarty missed, had _he_ missed as well?

The dead body on the floor told him no, his aim had been spectacular. A rush of pride hit him but he pushed it away. His arm hurt, and he wasn't even close to the end of the predicament. He turned around to look at John and Mycroft, neither of which seemed to be looking at him anymore. Still, he lurched forward. He pulled a small knife from his pocket, cutting through the ropes as fast as he possibly could. John still didn't look at him, only focussed on the floor. Sherlock bit his lip. _No no no_, his mind screamed again. _Let him be okay._

The ropes finally gave way under his knife and he pulled the other man from the chair. However, even his own legs didn't seem to support John. Sherlock, confused, stared for a moment, before he looked and realized: John's legs were broken. No wonder they wouldn't sustain him. But he let the man crumple to the floor anyway, for fear that Mycroft was no longer breathing.

Just as he reached his brother, however, a voice echoed, "You've made your choice, Holmes. Back away from the man or die with him."

Sherlock whipped around, seeing nothing but the red dot placed perfectly on his forehead. He gulped and raised the gun again. "Don't shoot!" he screamed anxiously. "The game's over! Moriarty's dead!"

The light faltered for a moment, and Sherlock wasted no time. He raised the gun, shooting in the time that the sniper had hesitated. He couldn't be sure if he'd hit anything, but the laser definitely disappeared. Now he could work on his brother's ropes. He cut through them with all of the strength and speed he could muster, his shoulder bleeding heavily down his arm. As the ropes gave way, he found he couldn't do anymore. His bleeding shoulder prevented him from lifting Mycroft out of the chair.

His arm ached, screamed at him to stop everything, but he couldn't. Where was he to go now?

Sherlock crumpled to the floor beside John. He bit his lip, hoping to force back the pain, but his body refused to comply. In a last effort, he shoved his hands in his pocket, searching for his cellphone. It was agonizing, the few seconds it took to find the device, and his shoulder screamed when he raised it to his face, frantically dialling the emergency number.

Within seconds his call was answered. He breathed a sigh of relief - he'd half expected no service out where he was, and, if that had been true, the world might as well have ended.

"I need an ambulance," he croaked.

"Sir, we're tracing your call now. What's wrong?"

"Three people here… my shoulder's been shot, bleeding heavily," he reported with as much strength as his voice would allow. "Two torture victims. Both heavily bleeding and damaged. _Please_, get an ambulance."

It must have been the first time he'd ever begged for anything.

"Tell Lestrade… Scotland Yard… it's… Holmes… Sherlock Holmes."

And the world went black.

**A/N: Never fear, my friends, there is one more chapter left to go!**


	22. You're Alive

**A/N: This is the last chapter. Thanks to absolutely everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, and alerted this fic. :) I don't have much to say (yet?) so please enjoy. I don't own Sherlock.**

**EPILOGUE**

Not for the first time, the world in front of him swam black on black and white on white. He forced his eyes to stay open anyway, staring around him wildly. A dull ache in his shoulder reminded him exactly where he was and why. He hated this place, hated every part of it, from the too-clean floor to the tasteless food. This was a hospital.

It had been six days since facing off with Moriarty, he reminded himself. He couldn't leave yet. Not just because his own shoulder screamed when he tried to move it, but because the others were here. He hadn't seen them - no, the hospital had strictly forbidden it, damn them. No matter how much he'd screamed and yelled, they'd detained him, even as the great Sherlock Holmes began to cry again.

Lestrade, they said, was stable and quite alive. But no one seemed willing to give him updates on John or Mycroft. And it bugged him, it really did. It drove him to the point that he'd lay awake late into the night. He'd never admit it, but just the night before he'd found himself crying, breathing hard, panicking because he couldn't be sure if they were alive.

In the time that he'd spent awake in the hospital, he'd contemplated this. He'd hated it, too. The new emotions, the way he was unable to control them. Many had said that Sherlock did not have a heart - however, it was quite the opposite. The man had a heart that, over the years, had been masked and hidden away from prying eyes. He'd been so afraid of losing it that he would never give it away… until he had unwillingly, to the three other men that had suffered through Moriarty's game.

On the night of the seventh day, he found himself crying again, but he forced himself to be quiet this time. The last time he'd been caught, nurses had flooded around him with assurances that meant nothing and oxygen masks he refused to use. But tonight, there was something different. The door opened quietly, so quietly that he didn't even notice.

When he looked up through his damp lashes, however, he was so shocked that he simply froze. Was the man in front of him an apparition? It had to be. After all, the man he knew didn't need a wheelchair, didn't have scars crisscrossing every visible part of him. But it had to be, _it had to be_. Fate couldn't play another cruel game with him.

Despite his shoulder screaming, he bounded up from the bed, crossing the room before the other man could protest. He wrapped his good arm around John, carefully as not to disturb the wounds but not all that carefully at the same time. He held on far longer than most would, only hoping that this was real, that he was really and truly here.

When he finally pulled away, he only kneeled beside the wheelchair, good arm resting on the side of it. "John," he croaked, surprised as just how raspy his own voice was. "You're alive."

"Of course I am," John made an attempt at an encouraging smile, but it faltered a bit. "You saved me, Sherlock. You saved us."

"Not fast enough," he shook his head slowly. "Mycroft…"

"Is alive, don't worry."

"And your legs…"

"I'll get used to it."

No more words were needed. A relieved smile cracked on Sherlock's face, despite the tears that stained it. He leaned forward, capturing his best friend in another embrace. They stayed like this until a nurse noticed both men out of bed, but even then they were reluctant to part.

And as the door closed behind John, another tear slipped down Sherlock's face.

"I won't let that happen to you again," he whispered.

* * *

It was a beautiful, warm morning and they all gathered outside. All, of course, meaning all but Mycroft. The hospital allowed visitors but had deemed him unfit to join the others. Sherlock, Lestrade, and John stared at one another with little half-smiles on their faces, though none could ignore the scars and wounds that each bore.

Sherlock, John had noted recently, took a turn in who he was. He was becoming extremely protective, and stressed over locks and security almost to the point of OCD. He didn't bottle his emotions - in fact, he seemed unable to control it. The first time Sherlock had cried in front of him had been at night, in the darkened hospital room, but he hadn't noticed it. The second time had shocked him, and by the third he realized what was happening: Sherlock did not know how to cope with these new emotions, and it was tearing him apart.

John, Sherlock had noted guiltily, was still much the same, but he didn't seem to sleep much at night. None of them did. And, oh, God, he felt so guilty for the wheelchair. He should have protected the man from this. Yet John never brought it up, never complained, never accused. But who was he to blame? It was Sherlock's fault for leaving him alone…

Lestrade must have been the only normal one besides the sling his arm was stuck in. He'd kept up his smile, kept up appearances, but the impact was far more than he'd ever allow anyone else to see. He was struggling with work, struggling to the point of drowning, and he knew well that things weren't going to stay the same. And, if things changed, he knew he wasn't going to be able to cope. He barely slept at night anyway, and admittedly winced at even the mention of Moriarty.

And then there was Mycroft.

Once a confident man, now broken. He wasn't even really allowed anywhere but his hospital room as the doctors tried to rehabilitate him, emotionally and physically.

The four of them, together, strong, perhaps, but they all suffered separately, spiralling downwards with each day.

And God only knew what would happen when they hit the bottom.

**A/N: And so we end our 22-chapter epic journey. Well, epic enough. I hope the ending was good enough, it was hard to find one that worked. This chapter leads us to the possible sequel, which will be called Learning To Live. However, I can't promise that it'll be up any time soon because it's not a priority fic. And to those of you who love Moriarty: never fear, I think you'll like the next criminal just as much. In fact, he might even remind you of someone… Intrigued? I hope so.**


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